Chiaroscuro
by Kitty XIII
Summary: Alex Rider has been dragged into MI6's chaotic world...again. But this time, the rules have changed—and it's hard to tell who the "good guys" are. Black or white, darkness or light...what does it take to bring back grief-stricken insanity from the brink?
1. Mirage

* * *

If you ever have any questions about the story, please don't hesitate to ask! Thanks!

SPOILER ALERT:  
_Takes place directly after the assassination attempt in Scorpia._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

The sun shone brightly overhead, its merciless heat chasing all the more fortunate souls into the chilly embrace of air-conditioned buildings or shaded pavilions. It was the kind of day that induced lethargic behavior in every living creature big and small, and the entire community in La Villa de Sol, Jamaica seemed to be sleeping away the muggy afternoon.

One less fortunate soul sweated his way down the beach, carrying a heavy metal briefcase. His free hand flew up periodically to straighten his hopelessly wrinkled blue tie or run through his mussed black hair. He cursed his vanity for choosing to wear such uncomfortably hot formal clothing to their meeting, trying to kick the sand out of his expensive leather shoes.

Finally he stopped at the dock in the beach, dropping the briefcase and breathing an audible sigh of relief as he stepped out of the furiously baking beach and into the shelter of a cloth rest tent. He carefully smoothed down his suit as best as he could, adjusted his tie one more time (its fine silk material was utterly ruined by then) and began waiting, dark eyes scanning vigilantly for the one person who would brave such a brutally blistering day.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Andre Markl."

The lightly accented, somehow familiar voice came from behind him, and the man jerked around to stare at the speaker, startled. Where had he come from? How had he managed to sneak up so silently?

The speaker flashed him a brilliant, relaxed smile as he approached the tent, saluting the nervous Andre with a half-hearted little wave before tucking his hands into his pockets. This other individual wore a pair of dark, reflective sunglasses and a completely white suit that blazed blindingly under the touch of the sunlight, and Andre more heard than saw the man step into the shade of the tent.

"I presume you are the White Fox." Andre's words were harsh, clipped, compared to the easy, conversational speech of the other man.

The White Fox had been called wily. Unreliable. Treacherous, lying, backstabbing, smart-mouthed, odious. Brilliant, precise, streamlined, loyal. He'd been called a necessary threat and a valuable asset, a lazy liar and an honorable bringer of justice. Beyond opinions, over his career, the Fox had carried out five major arsons, stolen almost two million American dollars' worth of goods, garnered six separate identities in the U.S., England, and four other countries, collected innumerable unpaid debts, extorted, counterfeited, bribed, trafficked drugs, kidnapped, tortured, vandalized, aided and abetted in just about every crime in the book of law, and generally blown every national and international law to hopeless shards. The current number of bodies attributed to being his handiwork had been rumored to reach well over five hundred. And despite having closely monitored profiles in the CIA, FBI, INTERPOL, and MI6, the White Fox had yet to be caught.

But he was truly famous among his clients because he was the only one, the only professional that had completed every assignment he had accepted with perfect, 100% accuracy.

And that was why Andre called upon him over his competitors.

The White Fox grinned again, and Andre suddenly understood how apt his nickname was. Everything about the White Fox, from his languid movements to his unnerving smirk, felt eerily…predatory.

"Yes, yes, that I am," Fox murmured. "But enough about me. You told me you have need of my…ahh…how shall I say?"

The Fox grinned.

"…Special talents."

"Yes. I would like to employ you to take care of this matter," Andre replied shortly, pulling a file from the briefcase and offering it to Fox. Fox extended a white-gloved hand to take it and silently flipped through the pages appraisingly. Andre watched the other man closely. There was something definitely familiar about this Fox…but he couldn't quite put his finger on what.

"Hmm. Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to take care of a particularly…_small_ problem." The Fox turned his mirrored gaze up to Andre, one eyebrow raised questioningly in search of an explanation.

Andre twitched irritably. If this…_Fox_ persisted in asking so many questions, he would have to find someone else to take the contract.

"I can pay the fee. It's here, in the suitcase." Andre patted the briefcase.

Andre felt the Fox's stare sharpen abruptly beneath the darkened lenses.

"Really, then?" Fox mused, looking back down at his hands as he slowly closed the manila folder. "Well. _You _certainly seem to be dedicated enough. Almost more than the other one."

_Other one?_ Andre was suddenly wary, and his hand inched backwards casually to rest on the gun holstered at his belt.

The Fox's eyes caught the movement, and an amused smile played on the man's face, as if he were remembering an old, fond memory.

"You plan on killing me for my silence?" The Fox shook his head disapprovingly. "Of all people, Mr. Andre, I would have expected better from you."

Andre's lip curled, and he pulled the gun out of its holster, pointing it directly at the Fox's heart.

"First of all," Andre snapped, "don't call me Andre. It's Mr. Markl to people like _you_." His voice made it clear that it was an insult. "Secondly, whoever you are, Mr. Fox, I highly doubt that you can dodge a bullet, so I suggest that you tell me who else called on you before I decide to pull the trigger."

The Fox's voice was heavy with oceans of regret. "Oh…Mr. Markl…I really would rather not have to…"

"Oh?" Andre sneered. "Well, it's a good thing that I don't have any such inhibitions. Take off those glasses. I want to see who it is that dared to cross swords with me."

The Fox contemplated silently for a moment. His fingers drummed idly on the folder, as if faintly bored by Andre's antics. He slowly curled a finger around the leg of his glasses. The dark lenses tilted forward, and Andre's eyes widened.

"What? You—?!"

Two shots rang out.

* * *

A burst of noise resonated in the quiet, steamy afternoon, and a child began to wail in La Villa de Sol, woken by the brief, sharp cacophony. His sleepy mother murmured soothingly to the infant, rising from her hammock under a palm tree to comfort her son.

She never noticed the small form lying facedown in the sand, two bullets in his skull, an eternally silenced scream resting on parted lips.

* * *

He sighed, sheathing his weapon. How onerous these men could be.

The Fox leaned down to inspect Mr. Markl's figure. How awkward he was, even in death. Limbs splayed like the tentacles of a beached jellyfish, eyes wide enough to pass for an anchovy's. How…unseemly.

The Fox closed Andre's eyes with a light touch of white-gloved fingers before straightening and strolling leisurely to the end of the deck. Not a bead of sweat gleamed on his fair skin despite the sun that beat down on him; not a wrinkle rumpled his immaculate white suit. He turned back to look one last time at Mr. Markl. He would not have to worry about cleaning up the body. The high tide would swallow up Mr. Markl's remains before the hour was out. There would be no evidence left to signify the crime had been committed, much less incriminate the culprit.

"Rider. Alex Rider…" His voice was thoughtful. Odd, that he had never heard the name before.

"Hmm…what is so intriguing about you, Mr. Rider, that you should have so many…_delightful_ friends…?"

And the Fox vanished into thin air, a simple mirage conjured from the shimmering, scorching, and blindingly white dunes of sand.

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Thanks for reading!

With All Due Respect,  
Kitty XIII


	2. Black Widow

Corrected as of 10.18.09 as per Ichihime's suggestions; I aim to perfect! :)

Enjoy! ^ ^

* * *

Strangely, the deaf and dumb darkness blanketing Alex at that precise moment was comforting. Away from the goggling eyes and panicky screams of before. Unlike the time he had been trapped in the small, dark channel in Cray's insane Gameslayer simulation, this black was softer, more open, and promised a brighter future in the distance.

Of course, this blissful oblivion could only last so long, and all good things come to an end.

The gentle blackness came to a jarring, screeching, unpleasant end as Alex slowly surfaced to consciousness. He was lying on his back as something beneath him carted him through a blur of muted, unintelligible noises and streaks of vivid, runny colors. People seemed to be babbling all around him, but try as he might, he could neither move nor make out what they were saying. Hospital orderlies surrounded him, and one nurse leaned down over him, her lips moving. She was saying something…perhaps he should listen. But bizarre, slurred jumbles of consonants and vowels spewed from her mouth, and Alex's attention quickly faded. Ridiculous. She was mocking him.

Didn't he need to go somewhere? There was something he should be doing…Jack would be worried if he didn't get home on time…but there was something…something about scorpions…scorpions and satellites and invisible swords…

"Alex Rider."

Two words cut through the meaningless din with crystal clarity. Alex's eyes focused on the speaker. A boy almost his age, tall, with blonde hair and the palest blue eyes he'd ever seen. That frozen, icy gaze fixed with his with a strange intensity.

Another two words in that same, smooth voice made it through the disorienting symphony of discord surrounding him, even though they confused Alex almost as much as the hubbub around him.

"Don't die."

Spoken in that tone, it was not a request, but an order.

Alex felt his eyes close, and he slipped back into the blessedly empty void, where thoughts floated away like golden bubbles on the inky waters of the River Styx. But he knew that he would not die, even though the idea of dying didn't particularly disturb him. Death was inevitable, but something told Alex he would live to fight another day…

What was more strange, though, was that odd command…

_Don't die._

* * *

The ambulance came screaming into the hospital at full speed, jerking to an ungainly stop just outside the emergency room doors. A whole phalanx of nurses and doctors who had been notified of the arrival beforehand surged out to meet the incoming platoon of paramedics. Nestled at the very center of the entire congregation rolled a single white gurney.

"What happened?" one doctor questioned the paramedic as they entered the hospital, keeping a brisk stride next to the bed.

"Drive-by," the paramedic grunted brusquely. The doctor's gaze drifted curiously over to the other man. The medic was a tall, thickly built man with medium brown eyes and hair…and there was something oddly forgettable about his bland, general appearance.

The paramedic, as if sensing his suspicion, leveled a calm gaze on the doctor.

"The patient?"

The doctor's training kicked in, and he forgot all else as he assessed the damage. He registered a faint pang of surprise; the boy lying motionless on the bed couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen years old. A bullet had entered his left shoulder and passed through with an almost surgical precision. Yet by sheer luck and some twist of fate, instead of piercing the heart, the piece of metal had veered off course just enough to miss the left ventricle and clip the aorta.

Still, if they didn't hurry, the boy would bleed out.

"What's his name?" he called out.

"That would be classified information, Dr. Reynolds."

A chilly, professional, voice answered him shortly, her tone brooking no argument. He looked up, startled. The weird paramedic had vanished, replaced by a dark-skinned woman. She walked swiftly alongside them, her darker-than-black eyes daring him to challenge her statement.

"You may call Mrs. Jones, Dr. Reynolds. Thank you very much for your services, but we'll take it from here." Her voice was decisive. Dismissive.

Dr. Reynolds considered his options. The boy hovered dangerously close to death, and his duty as a doctor called him to ignore everything but saving the life at stake. Rescue now, face punishment later.

Mrs. Jones sensed his hesitation to obey and sidled closer so that the other nurses and doctors couldn't hear their conversation.

"Dr. Reynolds, I suggest you do as we say if you want your children to come home from school safely tomorrow."

Dr. Reynolds turned a pale shade of ashen gray. "How do you know about Lily and Evan?"

Mrs. Jones stared.

The doctor chose.

Dr. Reynolds quickly peeled himself away from the gurney and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket to call his wife.

* * *

Mrs. Jones gave a little inward sigh. She'd just taken a major chance in assuming the doctor had children and then had proceeded to completely obliterate MI6's usual modus operandi by openly threatening a civilian. Yes, it was an empty threat. But Alan would still be most certainly have unflattering things to say about her brash behavior. _Unprofessional,_ he'd say in that arid, detached voice of his. _Irresponsible and unnecessary._

But then Mrs. Jones looked down at the boy on the gurney and remembered why she'd taken such a risk to begin with.

It was strange to see Alex—Alex, who was nimble and quick in everything that he did—sprawled so gracelessly on the claustrophobically white sheets, mouth slightly open, a deep scarlet stain blossoming like some bizarre flower on the left side of his chest with every beat of his heart. For the briefest moment, Mrs. Jones saw Alex Rider not as England's secret teenage spy, but rather as yet another innocent life caught in the deadly crossfire between MI6 and Scorpia.

A quick burst of something warm and painful shot through her heart before she smothered it in practicality. No. Mercy was weakness. Sentimentality had no place in her world. She was doing nothing more than safeguarding one of MI6's most prized and valuable investments.

But even as she said it, her mind recoiled at the cynical wording. _Investment_ meant buying life insurance or purchasing stock. _Investment_ did not entail training a fourteen-year-old boy to become a cold-blooded killer.

"Where's Dr. Reynolds?" demanded one of the nurses stridently, jerking Mrs. Jones out of her lapse, "His b.p. just dropped to 60/45, and keeps going down!"

"Pulse at 55," another nurse's voice chimed in coolly.

Mrs. Jones scanned the halls as Alex was whisked closer and closer to the surgery room. Alan said that there would be someone already at the hospital, waiting for them…

"I think I'm the one you're looking for," murmured a peculiarly accented voice.

Just in front of the emergency room entrance, a tall, rapier-slender teen stepped awkwardly out in front of the gurney. He was fair-haired, with a lean, marble-white, angular face. A long, hair-thin scar ran across his right cheek in a languid arc. A black-and-white plastered foot peeked out from beneath his ensemble of white clothing. Mrs. Jones automatically catalogued the boy in her memory for future reference.

The nurses brought the bed to a smooth halt with a practiced unity to avoid running him over. Alex's head lolled.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" the nurse barked—"diastole dropping to 35" said that same deadpan voice—"Get out of the way!"

"Mrs. Jones, I believe?" Mrs. Jones heard that unusual accent again. He greeted her courteously, dipping his head in respect. "Our mutual acquaintance sent me here to treat a…particular case." He nodded a little at Alex.

Mrs. Jones blinked. _What? Alan sent an __**teenager**__ to care for Alex? He probably just entered college! Alan, what the hell were you __**thinking**__…?_

"Security! Have this child removed from the vicinity immediately!" the nurse called furiously.

He studiously ignored the nurse. "What are his current stats?"

The other nurses faltered, torn between their two commands. Security came thundering down the hallway, brows furrowed.

"What's the problem here, Casey?" the man queried, his eyes flickering back and forth from Mrs. Jones to the teen to the nurse.

"Enough," Mrs. Jones snapped authoritatively, "I can vouch for Doctor…"

"Vulpes," the teen supplied. At the name, a few scattered gasps escaped the nurses, and Mrs. Jones's curiosity spiked. Nobody pushed Mrs. Jones for more information. They stood as if struck dumb, their expressions displaying stunned reverence.

Mrs. Jones's eyes narrowed slightly. Who was this child? He couldn't have been more than eighteen, yet already his name alone had enough gravity to shock the nurses into silence.

The adolescent turned his steady, strangely intimidating gaze on the nurse for a few precious seconds before asking again, softer. "B.p. and pulse?"

"…B…B.p. 50/35, pulse 53…" she stuttered, eyes wide in amazement.

"Go in. I'll be there in a second. Try to get him stabilized." The nurses hastened to obey, resuming their journey into Surgery. Security drifted back to their former posts, perceiving that the problem had been peacefully resolved.

Dr. Vulpes turned to Mrs. Jones and sighed, ruffling his hair. "Sorry about that. Even after a week here, they still don't know me."

Mrs. Jones said nothing. She mentally ran through the list of prominent people in every field. Vulpes didn't ring any bells.

"I'm Lucius Vulpes, I'll be operating on Alex." He shifted his weight so that he could extend a hand. Now there was a half-hearted smile on his face. Mrs. Jones was struck by how the imposing expression of only a half a minute before had shifted to a weary and utterly _young_ look. _Is he really a surgeon? Or even a doctor?_

"Well, now that you know who to sue when this fiasco settles down, I'll have to leave you here, Mrs. Jones. I regret doing so, but my own doctor will eat me alive if I stay on this leg for more than a few hours tops."

Mrs. Jones blinked.

_Was that supposed to be a joke? _

"Hopefully I'll see you again sometime, Mrs. Jones. Just ask for Luc Vulpes." He flashed another, more mischievous smile. Mrs. Jones recognized a sharp, cocky American cadence to his words under his bizarre accent.

With a friendly wave he hobbled into the surgery room. The nurses and assisting surgeons scurried about, gathering instruments and pulling on latex gloves and paper gowns, all while listening to the teen's orders.

The sheer amount of power that Dr. Vulpes held reminded Mrs. Jones of Scorpia or Damian Cray or a whole host of rather unpleasant, totalitarian criminals she had dealt with…

Mrs. Jones stared one last time at the orderly chaos beyond the glass and then turned away. Her job was done. Alan would be awaiting her return. She clicked down the hallway and out the emergency room doors, brushing past a paramedic on her way.

"Sorry, ma'am."

Mrs. Jones didn't even bother acknowledging the man. She stalked straight past him without a word and got into the sleek black car waiting for her outside. "Drive." The car pulled silently out of the lot and breezed towards the highway. She never looked back.

The paramedic had been counting on that. Not that he actually _was _a paramedic. He smirked. Foolish MI6. They guarded themselves against emotion, and thus created an immense and vulnerable blind spot. No proper agent of MI6 would look back—to do so would be a sign of regret—or even worse, weakness. In any case, it made his job much easier. He turned, and his pace quickened.

Now, to deal with all the fuss over a certain troublesome youth…

* * *

A nurse stopped in front of a door in the Critical Care Ward in St. Mercy's Hospital. She glanced curiously down at her clipboard again. Sure enough, in plain black-and-white letters was printed "Room #13; Alex R."

And right under that, in large red letters: "CLASSIFIED."

She paused, her hand hovering near the doorknob. The other nurses had been whispering about the mysterious Alex R. Everyone in the ward had heard of peculiar—sometimes even mentally unstable—victims, but there was a general consensus that this _Alex_ persona was definitely…different. To be sure, he was—at the tender age of fourteen—one of the youngest patients to ever visit the Critical Care Ward for a GSW. Yet what really threw them off was that he was quiet. Calm. Basically, the opposite of every other gunshot wound victim._ Tall, dark, and handsome—the Prince of Darkness,_ one nurse had giggled, only half-joking.

Secondly, the official (as in public) story behind his injuries was to be disclosed only as "a biking accident." The hospital personnel scoffed at the feeble excuse—but quietly. Every single staff member—whether they had worked with Alex or not—had been required to sign a nondisclosure contract. Apparently the orders had been handed down from a very high authority—one that even the squabbling techies in Communications obeyed unquestioningly (a feat not easily achieved).

The nurse remained motionless for another few seconds. Only the richest of the richest could afford to come to St. Mercy's—and yet, she had never encountered someone so overtly protected before. Why was this patient so shrouded by secrecy? What could she be getting herself into?

Steeling herself, she opened the door without further hesitation and stepped in.

There the 'Prince of Darkness' was, sitting upright in the bed—and he did not disappoint. Fair hair just long enough to count as fashionable. A slender, athletic build. He had an attractive face—but for whatever reason, the nurse felt like he didn't smile very often.

And those eyes…subdued, deep brown, with a haunted air. Eyes that had seen too much in too little of a time.

_The eyes of a hunted animal._

The nurse smiled and walked up to the bed. The boy had obviously had enough without her giving him weird looks as well.

"Hi, Alex, I'm Vicky Webber. I'll be standing in for your doctor today. How are you?" she queried, scanning the clipboard at the end of his bed.

"Fine, thank you." His voice was polite, faintly fatigued.

Vicky glanced at him curiously as she stepped over to the monitors. His gaze bored steadily back into her, and she quickly found it more comfortable to examine the EKG than lock eyes with the boy.

_So…bitter._

"That's good. It looks like your physical therapy has been coming along well. It's certainly lucky that you were so healthy when you were wounded. You've been knitting up quite nicely. With a little extra luck, you might even manage to check out early." Vicky was startled at how she thoughtlessly she blathered on and on. She usually didn't ramble so much.

It was almost as if she was unconsciously afraid of the chilly silence threatening to invade the room.

Vicky shook off any stray trains of thought, replaced the clipboard, and turned her bright smile onto Alex. He could sit mum and dumb as a stone for all she cared. She'd dealt with less cooperative patients before. Or at least she reassured herself that she had.

"Okay, then, Alex, if you'd follow me to the physical therapy room…"

* * *

Even a few weeks later, Alex was still feeling the aftereffects of his encounter with Scorpia.

It wasn't just physically, either. According to his medical report (which he had read the moment he could reach without unbearable pain), the bullet had entered through the front of his left shoulder, deflected off of his scapula, and exited at an angle, narrowly missing the upper vena cava and spinal cord as it left. It had torn muscle, fractured the bone, and caused some bleeding, but in a broad perspective, Alex was alive—and incredibly lucky. Apparently, while the sniper had not missed his target, Alex had turned just enough of a nanometer to spare most of his organs. All he had to do was sit tight, not rip his stitches, and let his body heal on its own.

But the worst damage had been done in Alex's mind. Alex still couldn't wrap his head completely around the idea. Scorpia. What kind of depraved people would be willing to kill a fourteen-year-old so ruthlessly, just to save face? How many Julia Rothmans were there out there—utterly brutal monsters wearing only the thinnest veneers of humanity?

And where Scorpia was guilty, MI6 was almost doubly so. What could MI6 be thinking? They had literally blackmailed Alex into entering the vicious, deceitful world of spies, placed him in incredible danger countless times, had withheld information and help, oftentimes when he needed it most—and they had armed him against people like Dr. Grief and with no more than GameBoys and zit cream. They had threatened Jack, the closest thing he had to a family. How could people like Alan Blunt and Mrs. Jones _live_ with themselves, doing what they did?

Mrs. Jones almost had him fooled for a second there, too. Telling him her first name—Tulip—she had almost seemed…human. But she had turned out to be just the same as the impassive Alan Blunt. Cold, blank, with about as much compassion as an iceberg.

"…_okay, Alex? Alex? _Are you alright?"

Alex blinked out of his reverie. The new nurse—Vicky—was looking down at him with a motherly sort of worry, her brow wrinkled slightly. "I said, are you alright, Alex?"

"…Yes. Yes, I'm fine."

The physical therapist—Dr. Thurston—strode over, smiling cheerily at Alex. He was a surprisingly rotund, fully white-haired little man in his early forties, with round-rimmed glasses, always donning a long white lab coat with some sort of food stain on its lapel. He reminded Alex of someone's beloved father or grandfather.

"Hello, Alex!" he greeted happily, with the same boundless enthusiasm as he had had the first day of therapy. Today's food stain was ketchup. "How are you, my dear boy?"

Alex's lips turned upwards slightly in a faint smile. With his sunny disposition and friendly demeanor, Dr. Thurston didn't seem like the type of person who belonged in a hospital.

"Fine, thank you," Alex replied as usual, but with a little more warmth.

"Good, good. It's always nice to hear that one's patients are doing well. Hopefully you'll be discharged soon?" the doctor probed, practically bouncing off of the floor.

"With a little luck."

The doctor beamed. "That's delightful to hear, my dear Alex. Now—"

Something crashed loudly in the background, followed by a little alarmed whispering from the other patients. They both turned to see what it was.

A tall, slim teen lay sprawled unceremoniously on the floor, apparently knocked flat by the dumbbell caught under his left foot. His right leg and foot were in a tightly wrapped black brace, lying crookedly across his left leg. The teen winced and raised his light-blonde head, revealing a thin, fair face that was handsome in an unusual, almost exotic sort of way, full of straight edges and sharp angles. A sheepish smile crossed his face as he propped himself up onto his elbows.

"Umm…Dr. Thurston? A little help would be appreciated," the other boy said in an unidentifiable, lilting accent.

"Luc!" Dr. Thurston sounded less concerned than annoyed and a little more than exasperated. "This is the third time you've tripped today. I swear, I think you like the attention you get for being so clumsy."

The boy on the floor—Luc—gave Dr. Thurston a feigned look of hurt. "That was uncalled for."

Dr. Thurston gave an exaggerated sigh and waddled over to help Luc to his feet. With a little help, Luc hopped to his feet and limped after Dr. Thurston as the therapist picked his way back to Alex.

"So sorry, Alex, my boy. This child, unlike you, is a complete '_klutz_'," the little man grumbled good-naturedly. To Alex's surprise, Luc clapped, grinning.

"Good usage of 'klutz', doctor. My American friends would be proud," Luc snickered. Alex briefly wondered what an American boy was doing in an British hospital.

"Oh, you, hush. I was in the middle of congratulating Alex for healing properly when you decided to fall flat on your face…again," Dr. Thurston admonished, but with a touch of resigned amusement.

"You make it always sound like _my_ fault," Luc sighed with a practiced air of long-suffering patience. Alex suppressed a smile. They had clearly been in this situation before.

"Anyway, Alex, it's excellent to hear that you're back on track to regularity. I can only hope that you live the rest of your life merrily, with a healthy amount of avocadoes and pita bread," Dr. Thurston said cheerily, patting Alex's shoulder.

The phone at Dr. Thurston's belt began to chirp, and the doctor fumbled at his belt for it. Alex took advantage of this momentary distraction to study Luc. There was something oddly familiar about him…

On closer examination, Alex could see a thin silver scar ran down Luc's right cheek, arcing from the corner of his eye to his jawbone. Luc met Alex's gaze and smiled warmly at him. Alex's own eyes widened with surprise. Luc's left eye was an icy, glacier blue—but his right eye was a distinctly different, almost feline shade of gold-tinged malachite green.

Luc noticed Alex's gaze and opened his mouth when Dr. Thurston turned to Alex.

"Many apologies, Alex, but it seems one of my less fortunate patients just took a rather nasty fall. Is there any way I can intrude upon your generosity and foist Luc on you for a couple of hours?" Dr. Thurston pleaded hurriedly, already halfway to the door.

Alex considered it for a few precious moments. As much as Alex preferred solitude at that moment, Dr. Thurston seemed truly anxious. If the little doctor did truly have an emergency on his hands…

Alex sighed inwardly.

"That's fine, Dr. Thurston."

The doctor's face lit up, as if Christmas had come a few months early.

"Now there's a good lad! Thank you, Alex. Due to current circumstances, just between you and me, I'll let you and Luc both off of therapy today. Be good on my time and enjoy yourselves!" he chorused. He turned to Luc. "And you, remember to take your medication at noon! I don't want to come back to find you in critical care again!"

He rushed off, white coat flapping behind him comically like the wings of a disturbed butterfly.

Alex glanced sideways at Luc. Now he was stuck with taking care of another patient (clearly already very accident-prone from what Dr. Thurston had said) in addition to nursing his own injuries. And on top of that, the good doctor, meaning for the best, had excused them from therapy—leaving them both with nothing to do.

Alex sighed. How did he manage to get himself into these situations?

"Umm…so…since I guess this is the first time we're meeting each other formally, I should probably introduce myself. The name's Lucius, but you can call me Luc." Luc smiled that infectious, mischievous grin again.

"I'm Alex. Nice to meet you."

They both began to head towards the door. "So, Alex, what did you do to get yourself landed in dear St. Mercy's?" Luc asked cheerfully.

"Biking accident," Alex answered a little bitterly, parroting the 'official story' MI6 had sent him. Yet another lie MI6 had forced down his throat.

"Is there something wrong?" Luc was gazing intently at him with those unnervingly multicolored eyes. Blue like the pristine top crust of an iceberg; green like the secretive depths of a forest pool. They were so…bizarre…

"Why are your eyes different colors?"

_Wow._ Alex was instantly mortified. It had just slipped out. And why, why had he asked that, of all things? He rushed to apologize.

"Oh, my eyes?" Luc winked the green one and flashed a quick grin at Alex. "It's a genetic disorder they call heterochromia. A couple of genes in one iris gets miscopied for whatever reason and expresses a completely different genetic phenotype than the allele expressed in the other iris. You'll find it a lot in dogs and cats, even water buffalo—but you won't find it that often in humans."

"I didn't mean to—"

"To insult me?" Luc rolled both green and blue eyes and snorted. "Give me a little credit, Alex. You've got to try a little harder than that to offend me."

Alex smiled—and froze with surprise. How long had it been since he had last smiled so unconsciously? And yet it felt so…natural. For the first time in almost a month, Alex felt at peace.

"Hey, Alex. I think yesterday one of the nurses in the cafeteria promised to get me something from the bakery." Luc broke the silence again, clearly making one last, faltering, valiant attempt at easing the awkward unfamiliarity between them. "I didn't know if you…" He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the floor. "Do you…want to come with me?"

Alex heard the small hope in Luc's offer. Now he could tell that Luc had been shut up in the hospital for too long, without companionship to help pass the time. Now that Alex had come, Luc finally had someone his age in the ward—but someone who apparently had no interest in making friends with him. Luc had extended a friendly hand one last time, ready to give up all hope if it failed.

Alex suddenly realized how heavy the burden of being responsible for another's happiness felt.

"…I'd be happy to."

Luc's countenance brightened at his answer, and Alex felt another bewildering pang of vicarious happiness. Is this what he had felt like before he joined MI6? Though it had been less than a year, he could hardly remember anymore.

"Well, then, we'd better get moving. The nurse isn't going to wait forever, you know." Luc's voice was abruptly cheerful again as he began hobbling off at top speed (which actually wasn't very fast). Alex was suddenly unsure. Was it safe to just go blindly following someone he had met for the first time just a few minutes ago?

He remembered the other teen's expression.

Alex jogged to catch up to Luc, smiling slightly as he saw Luc barely avoid colliding with a couple of nurses. It was a hospital, for heavens' sake. What could possibly go wrong?

Famous last words.

* * *

"So, Alex, what did you do to land yourself in St. Mercy's?"

The nurse—specifically, OB/GYN nurse Joanna—smiled at Alex, tucking a piece of blonde hair behind her ear. Alex, Luc, and the nurse were meandering about the cafeteria at Luc's insistence, giving Alex a chance to see the rest of the hospital. There was none of the infamously disgusting hospital food at St. Mercy's.

In fact, Alex had never seen a hospital so beautifully furnished. Wherever he looked, there were solid hardwood tables, modern glass-and-steel creations, plush upholstery, and huge, exotic potted plants with fat, colorful blossoms. The cafeteria itself was a large, hexagonal room with a ceiling of lightly tinted sheet glass, allowing thick swaths of sunlight to brighten the whole room. Some hospital rooms on the higher floors had balconies jutting over the cafeteria, allowing the patients to observe fellow people eating and generally having a good time.

Nurse Joanna, a young, blonde nurse, had introduced herself energetically at the entrance to the cafeteria, embracing Luc and shaking Alex's hand. Luc happily chatted with both of them until they entered the cafeteria, where he instantly gravitated towards the food. Nurse Joanna had chuckled and was now leading them around so they could choose what they wanted for lunch.

"Biking accident," Alex replied calmly, having (grudgingly) perfected his poker face.

"Ah. I keep telling young teens not to ride on motorcycles, but…" She shook her head in dismay. "Everyone thinks they're invincible when they're young."

"Joan, you aren't that old yourself," Luc quipped, tearing his attention away from the food for a few moments to roll his eyes.

"Yes, well, youth only lasts so long," Nurse Joanna smiled, clearly flattered. "Speaking of which, I'm getting older with every second we stay here. Are you going to actually eat something?"

Luc sighed and finally decided. Joanna bought him his lunch and turned to Alex. "Have you decided, too?"

"I'll just have whatever Luc is having."

Joanna turned back to speak to the lady behind the counter—and, as she turned, Alex saw the outline of a gun briefly pressed against her skirt before it flared out again.

Alex blinked. Had he really seen the outline of a _gun_? He immediately became suspicious. What would a nurse possibly need a _gun_ for?

"…Here you are, Alex." Joanna handed Alex his lunch and beamed at them. "All right, then. We should go and find a table."

"Don't you want anything?" Luc queried curiously.

"I already had lunch hour. Thanks, though," she replied, smiling. "How about…that table over there?"

Luc and Joanna fell to discussing the novel architecture of the cafeteria as they headed towards the table, leaving Alex time to think. Why would a nurse need a gun in a hospital? Joanna worked in the maternity ward. Surely there was no need for it there.

Alex's gaze wandered around the cafeteria—and then glimpsed a tiny glint of something in the furthest, darkest corner of a balcony. He glanced back at it—and his heart froze.

It was the unmistakable glint of sunlight dazzling off of the pristine ebony-black barrel of a sniper's rifle, like a malicious wink.

The world seemed to slow, and Alex reacted automatically, dropping the tray, sprinting forward, reaching for Luc, though now a few feet seemed to stretch, and Luc was impossibly far away…

* * *

The assassin rolled his shoulders once to stave off cramps threatening his muscles after an hour of total stillness. He had long since changed out of the paramedic uniform and now donned jeans, a T-shirt, and a casual jacket. His once brown hair was now a deep black. Green contact lenses masked the plain brown of his eyes. A few touches of makeup here and there, and suddenly he was a completely different man.

Now he crouched in one of the balconies looking over the huge cafeteria, silent and deadly as a black widow in its web. His target had entered the room thirty-two minutes ago, and his accomplice was now in the slow but necessary process of luring the target into his range of fire.

He spent a few precious seconds adjusting the scope mounted on the gun. It was a beautiful, sleek piece of handmade German metalworking with its own tripod stand, and custom-made cartridges. A silencer fitted snugly over the barrel of the rifle. The rifle itself had been specifically crafted to be smaller and lighter, making it easier for him to conceal. But accuracy range had been sacrificed to create such a lightweight gun.

Hence the current need to draw the target into his line of fire. He quelled the impatience rising in his stomach. _Calm._ He would need all of his focus to ensure satisfactory completion of the jobs.

But a stray thought still trailed through his head as he focused the scope yet more minutely. This particular job was costing their client a great deal of money—exactly 10 million American dollars up front, 10 million dollars after the fact. A single tug of the trigger, and he would be a rich man by the end of the day.

Then why? Why did the White Fox decline? The assassin knew that his clients had gone to the Fox first. He could see it in their angry, confused attitudes. They had clearly never heard of the Fox's infamously mercurial tastes, or his sheer obstinacy. The Fox would take whichever jobs he wanted, when he wanted. He would not, under any circumstances, be bullied, bribed, or beaten into taking a job he didn't want to do.

The assassin smiled wryly. And good luck to the person who tried. How did one blackmail someone who—technically—didn't even _exist_?

That still left the question of why the Fox hadn't taken the job.

The assassin shrugged to himself. Who knew? He was still getting the 20 million. And besides, the Fox's actions were known to be motivated by purely personal whims, disregarding moral and financial values—or, according to some theories, were completely, insanely random.

The target moved in range, and the assassin forgot the rest of the world. He stayed his hand for another agonizing minute as the target drew closer. _Wait for it…wait for it…_

The target lined up perfectly with the crosshairs. _Dead center._

The assassin pulled the trigger.

* * *

Thanks to ALL who reviewed:

animeMUSICaddict, mia, Ichihime, Riley, Marie Elaine Cullen, Flamelilly22, TheNotedMusician, Cracker.895, Valak, Emmy-loo, firedrakegirl, Rid3r Chick, Wolfmonster

I know this chapter was a little monotonous, but most authors know how difficult it can be to create a properly entertaining and informative "intro" chapter. :) Thank you for your support!

~With affection, Kitty.

P.S.--For all of you detail-mongers (like me) and medical fanatics:

OB/GYN: Obstetrics and gynecology specialist; works in the maternity with pregnant women, childbirthing, newborns, and new mothers

B.P.: Blood pressure (systole/diastole)

Upper vena cava: the large, vital vein pouring deoxygenated blood from the shoulders, arms (?) and head into the first chamber (ventricle) of the heart to be pumped to the lungs

EKG: Electrocardiogram (or electro**_k_**ardiogram in German, its mother language); a machine that helps monitor the heartbeat of a patient via electrodes placed on the chest, wrists, or ankles of a person. Most modern ones produce an electronic image of the heartbeat, and when the patient's heart ceases to function, the EKG will emit a loud, strident, continuous beep and display a flat line (hence the term "flatline"). Perhaps more recognizably: it's the nifty little beepy thingy in E.R. and Grey's Anatomy that causes great fusses when it "flatlines". :)

If you Google any of these terms, you should get a much more satisfactory answer than what I can provide with exactly one year of Biology and a slight knowledge of medical terms. I would include links here for further reference, but FanFiction (bless its heart) doesn't let authors do so. Anyway, enjoy!


	3. Favor

Hallo, my friends, it's been a while! Sorry for the huge gap between updates, but term papers are looming over the horizon…

XD Anyway, thanks for everyone's patience. This chapter is a bit dry, but as we all know, Blunt is a rather dry individual, and, other than that, the set-up of the story is always the least interesting part…

Promise, promise, promise to make the next chapter more interesting. :) Thanks for your patience.

Enjoy!

* * *

For a strange, calm moment after the shot was fired, nothing happened. The silencer had done its work well; only a faint, almost pneumatic hiss could be heard accompanying the subdued muzzle flash in the balcony above.

Alex remembered the shocked look on Luc's face before he found himself waking up lying on his back on the marble floor of the cafeteria. He was bewildered—he didn't remember being knocked out. He blinked and pushed himself upright, reorienting himself as a wave of lightheadedness hit him. Splotches of bright red flashed over his vision, and he wasn't sure if it was an optical consequence of hitting his head or if it was blood, red, red blood spattered everywhere…

And then, as a woman noticed the scene, she opened her mouth…and the screaming started.

The cafeteria erupted into pure chaos around Alex, a mass panic triggered by that first shriek. Doctors on their lunch breaks rushed towards Alex, shouting orders desperately to the nurses, trying as best they could to stabilize the situation.

Alex shook off his dizziness and forced himself to focus. Luc. Where was Luc?

Something brushed Alex's arm and looked down. Luc was sprawled awkwardly on the ground halfway underneath his right arm, unconscious. So Alex had reached him in time.

Or maybe not. The same feather-touch brushed his fingers, and Alex saw a splotch of real blood lapping at his hands. Alex reflexively drew back to see a vivid crimson pool around Luc's left shoulder, now easily distinguishable from the phantom blots of red floating about his vision. A vicious slash of red streaking across Luc's sleeve glared ostentatiously against the white cloth.

Luc stared up at Alex, blinking dazed, polychrome eyes slowly against the light. "Ow," he murmured, wincing and touching his arm. Luc seemed vaguely surprised to see his fingers stained with blood and struggled to pull himself onto his good elbow.

Luc relaxed, falling back to the marble floor. His eyes seemed glassy, unfocused. "Alex?" Luc mumbled, his brow wrinkling slightly as he tried to identify the person gazing down at him, "Alex? What…where…"

And then Luc's multicolored eyes drifted completely shut.

Alex clamped one hand over the slash, ignoring the coppery smell of blood. He couldn't tell how deep the wound was, but from the way the red was spreading rhythmically on the cloth, Alex could tell the bullet had torn an artery. Now it was a race against time—with every frantic heartbeat, Luc's own traitorous heart purged precious blood from his body.

Alex glanced around for help. For the most part, the doctors were still huddled under barriers, many anxious searching for the shooter, but one young doctor struggled to his feet and sprinted for them, head and shoulders tucked in close to his body.

That one doctor would have to do. Alex could do nothing more than keep pressure on the gash. He ignored everything around him, trying to recall what had happened before he had blacked out…

_The balcony._ Alex's eyes flew open. He looked up, and the man was looking back at him, still cradled in the shadows. Their stares lasted for a moment more before the other man leaned down to disassemble the gun. He shifted away from Luc as the doctor finally arrived and took over, but Alex did not attempt to pursue. Running after the assassin now would be useless; the man was too far away, and, judging from his quick, efficient movements, much too adept at fleeing. It was better for Alex to simply watch for clues indicating the assassin's identity.

And then another gunshot rang sonorously through the cafeteria.

As another bout of shrieks and flinches rose all around, the assassin pitched forward, clutching his left shoulder. As he staggered to the railing, falling to his knees, the assassin's eyes wandered back down to Alex, as if to say, _"Would you believe that?"_

And then the eyes were empty, and the assassin crumpled to the floor.

Alex stayed immobile for another second, stunned by the rapid turn of events. Who had shot him? The hospital guards had yet to reach the cafeteria; it couldn't have been security. There were no police in sight, plainclothes or uniformed. Nurse Joanna—if she really had been a nurse—had vanished, too, taking her gun with her.

Alex's mind raced. Then who? An assassin killed by…_another assassin?_

As if on cue, another figure stepped onto the balcony where the assassin lay. Even from a distance, Alex could see that it was a huge man clothed in all black, with almost grotesquely thick bunches of muscle layered on his shoulders, neck, and back. His build was so thick that his profile rippled when he moved. His short, spiky hair blazed a bright, brazen peacock blue, contrasting sharply with the plain black of his attire. This was a man who lived for attention—and most definitely received it.

Blue Hair leaned down to inspect his handiwork, his slim black handgun still held at his side. Strangely, after less than ten seconds, he abruptly stood up, his movements considerably more agitated than before. He paced for a moment, his long legs carrying him from one end of the balcony to the other in two strides. He hesitated midpace, turned one last time to look at the body—and then, coming to some decision, disappeared back into the depths of the darkened room leading out to the balcony.

By the end of the scene, Alex was utterly baffled. What was _that _all about? Why did it seem like Blue Hair had had second thoughts about killing the first assassin? Surely it wasn't remorse, because Blue Hair had barely looked at the body—but then, was he gloating? But that didn't explain his apparent agitation…

Alex waited, but Blue Hair did not reappear in the doorway. He looked over at Luc, whose frame was completely obscured by attending doctors. Alex began to relax a little.

The world warped dizzyingly, abruptly as he righted himself. The red spots that had almost completely faded from his vision returned in full force, blocking out his vision. A high, buzzing noise filled his ears. He reached out for something to steady him, and his hand banged a chair. But without a sense of balance, Alex's grip weakened, and he slipped back to the floor as all the world was consumed by blackness…

* * *

"…wouldn't worry. In fact, it looks like he's coming around right now." The voice was soft but firm, the voice of a doctor with a naturally comforting bedside manner. "Alex Rider? Can you hear me?"

For the second time in less than two weeks, Alex felt himself surfacing slowly towards the painfully bright landscape of reality.

He opened his eyes, and the frightened face of Jack and a dark-haired girl swam into view. The other girl's face wavered a little, and Alex fuzzily identified the face. Sabina? Alex blinked a few more times.

No, not Sabina. A pretty, young, dark-haired Asian doctor gazed steadily down at him, white coat immaculately pressed, clipboard in hand. Her nametag read "Dr. Qiu."

"Alex!" Jack practically leapt onto the hospital bed he laid on, red hair flying after her like a tossed farewell-handkerchief. Her anxious eyes carefully scanned his face, as if seeking signs of injury there. Alex smiled a little, relaxing. For the first time in his stay at the hospital, he felt more at home.

"I don't believe you!" Jack chastised, her eyes reproachful. "I was _literally_ en route to visit you here when I got the call telling me you'd gotten involved in_ another _accident!" She gazed reprovingly at him, but pride shone through. "I also heard that you saved another patient's life, Alex. A kid around your age."

"_Luc _is recovering as we speak," Dr. Qiu chimed in helpfully, looking amused. "Fortunately, you tackled him out of the way, and the bullet just clipped his arm. Not only that, you also managed to keep him from bleeding out while Dr. Reynolds got there." Her eyes grew solemn, and her voice dropped some of its arid crispness. "In my professional opinion…Luc would have died if you hadn't been there."

Jack beamed at Alex. "Do you hear that, Alex? You saved someone's life."

If only she knew about all that MI6 had forced him into.

"Ahh…Ms. Starbright, I am impressed by your enthusiasm, but Alex is still in a rather precarious situation, and I'd prefer to err on the side of caution…" Dr. Qiu said delicately, wincing as she saw Jack fling her arms around Alex's neck again.

Jack reluctantly disentangled herself from Alex but refused to budge from the bed. A little smile tugged at the corner of the doctor's mouth, but she turned resolutely towards Alex, determined to stay professional.

"Alex, when you saved Luc, you hit your head pretty hard on the ground. We're almost a hundred percent sure that you'll make a full recovery before the day is out, but just in case, we'd like to keep you under observation for another forty-eight hours. Head injuries can sometimes deal some nasty damage that doesn't show up until later."

Alex sighed inwardly. And he had been looking forward to leaving the hospital tomorrow…

"Also, Alex…" Dr. Qiu seemed slightly unsure of herself. "Someone…else wished to speak with you as soon as you woke up. We held him back as long as we could but…"

Jack glared at the doctor. "What do you mean?"

"I'm sorry, but this is of the highest priority," Dr. Qiu apologized, "Ms. Starbright, you'll have to leave again for a couple of hours. This…person wished to speak with Alex privately."

"And since when do strangers get to waltz in and talk to Alex whenever they want?" Jack bristled.

The door opened…and an oddly colorless with pallid skin and blank eyes stepped into the room. His suit, briefcase, and glasses were the exact same shade of battleship-gray, giving him the overall impression of being curiously two-dimensional.

Alex's eyes narrowed at the sight of his least favorite person on the planet.

"…Alan Blunt."

* * *

"It seems that your skill at surviving ceases to astound, Alex."

Alex did not reply, instead settling for a carefully controlled glare at Blunt. Upon his arrival, several MI6 agents had cleared the room of both Dr. Qiu and a hotly protesting Jack. They had almost been on the verge of bodily carrying Jack away from the room when Alex had finally (and highly reluctantly) conceded to speaking with Blunt.

Now Alex stared venomously at Blunt from his hospital bed, refusing to be cowed by Blunt's menacingly cold presence. "What do you want this time?"

Blunt's colorless eyes matched with Alex's as the MI6 operative sat next to the hospital bed.

"We've come to offer another job."

"No." Alex replied decisively, almost cutting into Blunt's sentence. "I don't want to do it."

Blunt's eyes disappeared behind the glare of the lights on his glasses. "You haven't even heard what the job is."

"I don't care." Alex was truly furious now. How dare Blunt—just before he was about to be discharged, just as he was starting to look forward to spending Christmas with Jack—how _dare_ he come storming in, expecting Alex's help again?

Blunt continued on. "I understand your anger, and—"

"I said, 'no'. In forty-seven hours and forty-three minutes, I'm going home and spending Christmas and the rest of winter break with Jack. I'm not working for you again," Alex interrupted.

Blunt gazed directly at Alex, but Alex didn't flinch under the empty gaze.

"Will you deny Luc his chance to say thank-you?"

Blunt's strange statement threw Alex, even through his resentment. Blunt didn't usually express interest in human things—like saying "thank you".

"What?"

"Will you deny Luc his chance to thank you?"

Alex felt truly befuddled now. "Why does Luc have anything to do with this?"

"In his gratitude, Luc Vulpes has requested your presence at his estate over Christmas break. Would you deny him that?" Blunt explained shortly.

"I…you didn't answer my question," Alex asserted, reorienting himself. "What does Luc have to do with any of this?"

Blunt opened his briefcase and flicked open the clasps. Inside lay a laptop padded by foam. Blunt pulled the computer out and placed it on a wheeled hospital table so Alex could see the screen. The computer booted up and a teddy bear holding a candy cane popped onscreen.

"Password?" it queried in a cute, high-pitched voice, waving the candy cane about like a baton.

Blunt typed something too swiftly for Alex to follow. The bear threw its paws into the air, dropping the candy cane.

"Hooray! You got it! And if you're there, Alex, please receive my dearest condolences. I do hope you get better soon," Smithers' voice said from the mouth of the bear, sounding startlingly masculine after the bubbly voice of before.

Alex hid a smile. That was certainly Smithers. Alex noted (with great pleasure) that Blunt seemed slightly sour as a PowerPoint presentation began scrolling across the screen.

The first picture depicted a brutal car accident, and Alex's stomach turned. The car was no less than three pieces of twisted, charred metal sticking out of a huge pile of rubble. He didn't want to imagine what might have happened to the people inside.

Blunt began his soliloquy as impassive as ever. "Two years ago, Mr. John and Mrs. Veronica Vulpes died in a freak car accident on their way to see a symphony performance. A tunnel—one that had never shown so much as a stress fracture during its evaluations—collapsed unexpectedly on their car in the middle of rush hour. They died instantly. Naturally, as John Vulpes had at one time been closely involved with MI6, we suspected foul play."

"How did Mr. Vulpes help MI6?" Alex broke in.

"That is classified information." Blunt's dry statement sounded distinctly rehearsed.

"That's weird, I feel like everyone who gets involved with MI6 ends up the same way Mr. Vulpes did," Alex shot back. Blunt ignored Alex and plowed on.

"We investigated every transaction, every business deal Mr. Vulpes had been involved in—and yet we could find nothing out of the ordinary—except for, perhaps, their son, Lucius Noir Vulpes."

The next slide showed a picture of a handsome, laughing fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy walking with his friends. His confidence and open charisma affected his appearance significantly, but the smile—that smile was unmistakably Luc.

"Mrs. Vulpes was infertile, but because the Vulpes couple had always wanted a child, they had adopted Lucius Noir Vulpes from an orphanage in the U.S. when he was around three years old, twelve years prior to their unfortunate incident.

"As it turned out, Luc Vulpes was, simply put, a veritable genius. He began attending Oxford at the age of ten and earned an accelerated double major in molecular biology and genetics in two years; he performed his first surgery at eleven. Less than a month later, Luc attended Harvard and earned his practicing medical license—specifically, in pediatric surgery—at the unprecedented age of fourteen years old. Now, at the age of seventeen, he's a fully-credited surgeon with legal backing and a reputation to match."

Several photos had slid by, almost comical for the difference between Luc and the other students' heights. Luc discussing something with a towering upperclassman; Luc celebrating with the graduating class, his diploma prominently stating, "Valedictorian"… And for whatever reason, Luc's classmates, a decade or more older than him, didn't seem disgruntled by the genius among them. In fact, in every single photo, they seemed perfectly enraptured by him.

"He's a _surgeon_?" Alex repeated, the doubt plain in his voice.

"Yes. In fact…" Blunt looked oddly at Alex. "He was _your _surgeon."

Alex's head spun at this revelation. "_My_…?"

Blunt stared at Alex strangely for another beat before turning back to the screen.

"As the sole heir of the will, Luc stood as the only one to benefit from his parents' accident. However, it was highly unlikely that he took part in either of the Vulpes deaths. Luc himself had originally planned on going with his parents to the performance, but was detained by an unfortunate bout of the stomach flu."

Alex felt a sudden pang of shock and slight sympathy. That sounded…_exactly_ like what had happened to his parents. Alex could almost imagine a thirteen-year-old Luc sleeping, waiting for his parents to come home and instead awakening to the sound of a telephone ringing and funereal voices…

And then Alex realized what Blunt had really been saying.

"…You thought that Luc _killed_ his own _parents_?" The very idea made Alex sick. "Why would he do that?"

"Ambition. Greed. Lust for power. There are many possibilities, Alex." Blunt almost sounded disappointed. "…Of all people, I thought you'd know that by now, Alex."

Alex was still reeling. "He was barely thirteen."

"And also classified as a genius, rivaling the IQs of men like Einstein and Newton, Alex. A dangerous potential enemy."

Alex exploded. "He was a kid!"

"And we watch our child prodigies all the more closely for their brilliance, Alex," Blunt retorted, sounding slightly annoyed for the first time. "Adult genii have intellect tempered by reason and self-control; children genii have pure, wild intelligence and little or no life experience to restrain themselves. Child prodigies are ten times more ambitious and infinitely less aware of the consequences of their actions. They can be easily twisted and manipulated into being controlled, Alex. MI6 monitors all of them very closely."

"So that you can kill them if they get too inconvenient?" Alex suggested viciously.

Blunt plunged forward, apparently oblivious to Alex's affront. The laptop showed a picture of a funeral in the newspaper. Alex could just barely pick out Luc's grief-numbed expression out of the black mass of people. The scene looked quite small and forlorn in the black-and-gray of the paper.

"Less than a year after John Vulpes's death, on his fifteenth birthday, Luc Vulpes established Vulpes Research and Pharmaceuticals. And within six months of its founding, VRP became the most powerful player in the medical industry and one of the leading competitors in several research fields including stem-cell research, cancer research, and genetic manipulation. Luc Vulpes is now the ruler of an quiet, international empire that manufactures over 70% of the world's medical supplies and technology."

The slides moved by in quick succession now, showing brief snapshots and articles regaling the new prince of the medical industry, Luc Vulpes.

Alex sat, stunned. Luc Vulpes—the same maladroit, cheerful Luc Vulpes he'd met in the lunchroom—was the leader of a multimillion-dollar corporation? The last thing Luc seemed to be was a businessman.

And another thing bothered Alex. "If it's really as big as you say, why have I never heard of Vulpes Research and Pharmaceuticals?"

"That's where things become strange," Blunt said. "Most companies promote themselves as much as possible, so that the public recognizes them on sight. However, for whatever reason, Vulpes Industries has chosen to remain in the shadows, and most of the general public is oblivious to the company's existence. Luc Noir Vulpes himself only showed up in the papers once or twice when VPR was established, and after that, the media…conveniently forgot him."

"But how does a company that big stay so quiet?"

"Vulpes knows the right people and has the right friends," Blunt stated. "If he wants to remain a secret, then he will."

"Friends like SCORPIA?" Alex ventured to ask. SCORPIA's name still sent a slight twinge through his bullet wound.

"We'll get to that," Blunt said dismissively, clearly implying that the topic was closed to further discussion. Alex very nearly brought it up again, half only to spite Blunt, but the MI6 leader was determinedly ignoring him.

"…What's the problem?" Alex could see nothing wrong with Luc. He was a generous, gifted individual with a knack for the corporate industry.

"Eight months ago, we received this photo."

Another picture slid onscreen. This time it was a slightly blurry photo, as if it had been taken with a concealed camera. Several people of different ethnicities stood chatting with one another. The smell of power curled off of them like a palpable aura.

Blunt tapped one man in the crowd. He was one of the taller people, with almond-shaped, serious black eyes and a clearly Asiatic face. His hair was pulled back tightly into a neat tail, and he seemed intently focused on something just beyond the frame. "This is Yong-ha Ko, a Korean superpower in the underworld. He's another assassin for hire by the name of Desmothenes Tyro. This picture was taken at a…less scrupulous meeting on a yacht in the Pacific Ocean. All of the people on that ship—including Yong-ha—are wanted in multiple nations around the world on corruption charges, murder, and worse."

Blunt seemed to going off on a non-sequitor. "Why is he important?"

"Even to the United States government, Luc is notorious for his…secrecy. For all of his fame and power, the CIA and FBI combined only have five hundred or so pictures of Luc altogether. It's still almost a complete mystery as to who lives with him in his main manor in California. However, the CIA recently invoked the Patriot Act and cut through all of the legal tangles to find out a little more about the most brilliant mind in the U.S.A."

The slide changed again, and Alex felt a little twitch of surprise. A business photo depicted Luc shaking hands with Bill Gates—but what attracted Alex's eye was the unsmiling man shadowing Luc just out of the camera's lens.

It was Yong-ha.

"To the CIA's alarm, they found that Luc's legally designated guardian and current bodyguard, under the name of Tseng Wutai, appeared to be the selfsame Yong-ha Ko that was so touted in the criminal underworld. As soon as this was discovered, the CIA and MI6 both began preparing for a possible meltdown or betrayal by VRP. We both have massive stockpiles of medical supplies to tide us over should Vulpes ever choose to disappear…or turn on us."

Blunt's last statement didn't seem directed at Alex.

In fact, he almost looked like he was consoling himself.

"You haven't explained the job yet."

Blunt instantly recovered his expressionless exterior, but Alex had to wonder… _Why is MI6 so concerned with just one teenager?_ Another unsettling thought nudged Alex.

…_Is there something Blunt isn't telling me?_

"MI6 is unsure of how Yong-ha is connected to Vulpes Industries and Luc himself. However, we are concerned that Yong-ha may be manipulating or Luc into assisting him in some underworld connections." Blunt adjusted his glasses, and the light reflecting off of his glasses made him look less human than ever. "Having seen the global reach and international importance of Vulpes, I think you understand our situation."

"You still haven't told me what you want me to do."

"MI6 and the CIA would like to assign you on an observation task on Yong-ha. For however long Luc requests your presence, we would like to ask you to monitor Yong-ha's actions and report any suspicious behavior to either the CIA or MI6. Both organizations will be watching for any distress signals, 24/7."

The computer screen reverted to showing just Yong-ha's face.

"You want me to watch Yong-ha?" Alex didn't let it show, but a knot loosened in his chest. He'd thought it would be more difficult.

"Yes."

That little knot tightened again. Yong-ha was an assassin, after all…it wouldn't be safe, but it was less dangerous than the missions MI6 and the CIA had sent him on before.

_It sounds too good to be true…_

"Why can't you watch Yong-ha from the sky? If you know where he is, I'm sure MI6 can handle tracking one man."

Blunt clicked something on the computer and a satellite photo appeared on the screen. Small bits of white marble could be seen gleaming in the sun, but for the most part, long, dappled shadows and thick leaf cover shielded the Vulpes manor from the sky.

"All of Vulpes's manors have encrypted telephone lines—including all cell phones—and there's just too much natural foliage in the area to get a good picture of anywhere in the Vulpes estate in California." Blunt sounded slightly irritated.

"And neither the CIA nor MI6 can break the encryptions on his phones?" Alex ventured doubtfully.

"Another established resident of the Vulpes estate happens to be an ex-CIA operative who worked with codes and code-breaking," Blunt said, but he was clearly unwilling to divulge any more information. He turned fully to face Alex, steepling his fingers.

"Well, then, Alex?"

Alex considered. Everything in him bridled against helping MI6 or the CIA in any way, shape, or form. But he could already visualize the look on Luc's face—friendly, hopeful, and pitiably desperate for a friend.

He sighed inwardly. And if he was at the Vulpes's mansion to begin with, wouldn't it be wasteful not to do some scouting? _Especially if Yong-ha might be trying to use Luc as a puppet to control Vulpes Industries._

_And this __**is**__ the first time that they've asked…"nicely", _Alex noted dryly.

Alex gave his answer slowly and reluctantly, as if it were extracted from him with pliers.

"…Fine."

"Excellent." Blunt seemed much more animated as he packed away his laptop and headed for the door. "Smithers will present you with your tools before you leave the hospital." Alex blinked at Blunt's rapid exit. _That was it? That was all Blunt had been waiting for?_

But before he left, Alex couldn't help himself.

"Don't you ever feel guilty, Blunt? About all of this?"

Blunt stopped, his hand on the doorknob, his back turned to Alex. Alex was surprised he even hesitated. For a fleeting moment, Alex thought he was going to turn around…

And then, so quietly that Alex thought he might have imagined it…

"Do you?"

Blunt turned the knob and left the room without another word.

* * *

Alex's eyes flew open. He immediately thought back to his last memory—Blunt's enigmatic reply, saying goodbye to a tearful Jack, falling asleep in the hospital bed, listening to the steady sound of his own heart tapped out on the EKG sitting next to him…

He relaxed as he recognized the vase of flowers in a painting hanging on the wall across from him and the sweet smell of the real flowers Jack had brought him sitting on the nightstand. He was still in the hospital. The curtains were drawn closed over the windows, to provide some semblance of privacy, and the room's lights had been turned down.

Then why did I wake up?

The door creaked slightly, and a small sliver of light from the hallway scurried into the room.

Alex quickly turned to focus on the door.

"…Alex?"

Luc was peeking in, his head and one shoulder wedged between the mostly-closed door in a vain attempt to keep the light from coming in. Even from the bed, Alex could see his strangely colored eyes.

"Oh, sorry, Alex. I didn't mean to wake you…"

"It's fine. Are you okay?" _It can't have been more than five or six hours since Luc was shot._

"Oh—yeah, I'm okay," Luc said sheepishly, and Alex could hear the grin in his voice. "I—I'm not supposed to be over here, but I couldn't sleep because my arm was killing me, and Nurse Cruz said she didn't mind as long as I was back in one piece…"

Luc gestured to his good shoulder. Alex could see a sling wrapped around his body, holding his left arm securely in place.

"That's good to hear."

Luc continued hovering near the door, not leaving, but not coming in either.

Still sleepy, a little disgruntled, and puzzled, Alex prompted Luc. "Is there…something else?"

"Yeah…actually…I was kind of wondering if…"

Alex waited patiently as Luc collected his thoughts. Another long stretch of silence settled over them, but it was a peaceful, companionable silence.

"Well, seeing as how you did end up helping me…"

"I'm going home in a few days, and I…I just wanted to know if you'd want to come and stay with me at my house back in America for a while. I mean, you kind of saved my life and everything, so I figured the least I could do is invite you over…"

Alex could see Luc mentally berating himself for his own inability to communicate. "You know what, Alex? Just ignore me. I'm just…really tired, and I'm just not thinking straight and…"

Luc's halting invitation was both disarming and somewhat pathetic. _Is this really the same person Blunt was talking about? Is he really a surgeon? And is he really such a threat?_

Alex realized that at the pace Luc was moving, it could take hours to get the words out. "I'd love to visit, Luc."

Alex could almost see Luc's surprise spreading over his face.

"Wait, really?"

"Is that what you were trying to say?"

"Yeah…but are _you_ okay with it, Alex?" Luc almost sounded discouraged by his own good fortune. "I don't want to make you feel obligated, because I know how that feels, and I hate it, so I wouldn't want to force you to do anything…"

"I'm absolutely sure I want to go."

Luc relaxed. "Thanks, Alex. I mean, thanks for agreeing to come, but also thanks for…you know…saving my life."

"Luc, the first thing you should learn is that 'saving someone's life' sounds a lot cooler than it actually is."

Luc laughed out loud, and Alex was amazed at how liberated, how free it felt.

From what he could tell, Luc hadn't laughed in a very long time.

"Alright then, Alex." That palpable smile hummed contentedly in his voice. "Thanks again. Good night." The door shut, taking the sliver of light with it.

Alex curled back into his blankets, and he couldn't help the slight smile pulling at his mouth…

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading. Reviews make my muse's world go round. :)


	4. Veneer

Omgggg it took forever for me to upload, but finally finals are done and summer is HERE! Sorry for the delay, and please do give feedback.

A/N: If there are any errors, please feel free to contact me about them. I usually get them fixed within that week (or, more optimistically, within the next few days)

Enjoy!

* * *

"Alex, my boy!"

Alex looked up from his Algebra II book, recognizing the voice of the only really sociable member of MI6. A very fat man was squeezing his way into the room, a suitcase in hand, only barely managing the gap despite the doorframe's considerable width. A large shirt printed with white lab mice draped across his vast frame, and with every inhale and exhale, the mice seemed to scurry back and forth across his round belly.

Smithers beamed at Alex, trundling over to his bed and sitting down on a stool that creaked loudly in protest. "Well, hello there, Alex, dear boy! I heard you're being released later today."

"With a little luck."

"Which you seem to have endless amounts of," Smithers commented, grinning and shaking his head. "Honestly, of all the people you could have saved in the hospital, you end up rescuing _the _Luc Vulpes, the prince of the medical industry—who would have thought such a coincidence could happen?"

_Actually…_ Now that Alex had time to reflect, it was _extremely_ convenient that Alex and Luc just _happened_ to have the same physical therapist and just _happened_ to have overlapping schedules…

He could already guess whose indifferent hand was behind these arrangements.

_Blunt_.

"…and Ana slapped her head down on the pillow and—POOF! She got a faceful of whipped cream for all of her constant vigilance." Smithers chuckled, and Alex tried to deduce what he'd missed.

"So, Alex," Smithers continued, completely oblivious to Alex's complete lapse in attention, "Since you are straying into a foreign country and staying in the same house as an assassin, and our dear British government—alas—does not have jurisdiction there, Blunt and Jones finally gave me the all-clear to load you up with some…higher-caliber tools."

"No more GameBoys?"

Smithers grinned. "No more GameBoys," he agreed. He began rummaging through his bag and pulled out a Manchester United jersey.

"Ever since the Point Blanc incident, I've been trying to develop a lighter, more flexible form of the rather burdensome Teflon used in traditional bulletproof vests," Smithers explained, holding up the jersey. "Luckily for you, a few weeks ago, I found our alternative by weaving together the carbon polymer chains in a new pattern that withstands high-impact collisions—such as a bullet—quite well.

"And since a boy like yourself would be expected to support one sports team or another, I decided to make you a jersey—I took the liberty of choosing Manchester United." Smithers folded the shirt and put it neatly on the bed. "Like all other sports jerseys, it's waterproof, comfortable to wear—and perhaps unlike other jerseys, it's also extremely fire-retardant and reasonably bulletproof."

"Reasonably?"

Smithers looked thoughtful before replying. "Well, there will probably be some bruising. And if you do get shot from less than five or six feet away…well, modern technology still has its limits."

_That's more than just reasonable,_ Alex thought to himself as he looked at the unassuming jersey. _Although perhaps not quite high-caliber_, he added, thinking of the ski suit that Smithers had given him.

"And when does this go on the market?"

"Ah, well, you see, it's a…bit of a prototype," Smithers admitted. "Manufacturing this one shirt, particularly at such short notice, cost MI6 just north of eight hundred thousand U.S. dollars, particularly with the new polymer strands and whatnot."

"Eight _hundred thousand_ dollars?" Alex repeated incredulously.

"Consider it a…consolation gift from MI6 for the Scorpio fiasco and think on it no more." Smithers reconsidered. "Well, unless you lose it. That _would_ be a shame." He turned back to his bag and continued rifling before pulling out a sleek black cell phone.

"If you watch television or read any type of technology magazine, you should recognize this little creature as the Motorola Droid," Smithers announced, touching the screen of the phone and lighting up the display panel. "Now, the Droids on the open market are well-equipped with state-of-the art technology designed by Google, all of which is good and well for the mundane needs of the targeted consumer party.

"However, for a very special lad such as yourself, your Droid has some very special modifications." Smithers handed Alex the phone. "Naturally, MI6 had some issues with copyright, but it's now yours, Alex."

"A cell phone?"

"Ah, but a very special cell phone. If you'll kindly move your finger a bit—there."

Smithers pressed Alex's thumb onto the screen, which instantly faded into black with bright green lettering scrolling onto the pad.

"Welcome, Alex Rider?" Alex read aloud.

"Perhaps you are not an English-speaker?" the phone answered. Alex had to stop himself from dropping the phone or flinching. The calm, cool voice sounded crystal-clear and perfectly natural, as if someone were standing before, delivering a speech. Alex glanced at Smithers.

"Please meet AIDA," Smithers said cheerfully, chuckling. "Artificial Intelligence Digital Assistant. I was so pleased when I was informed that you had finally had an assignment without technological constraints precisely because of dear AIDA."

"How do you do?" the phone said, a distinct sense of amusement underlying its courteous tone.

"She's a sort of crowning achievement of mine," Smithers continued brightly, his face resembling that of a proud father. "A fully-fledged AI with more computing capacity than most commercial-grade laptops, equipped with the 'whole nine yards' as those Americans like to call it: 24/7 satellite communications with MI6 HQ, a GPS tracking and guidance program, high-speed Internet connections with Google engineering, a auditory-capable translator as well as a live connection to urban dictionaries around the world, and, of course, the all-important hacking ability."

"…Hacking?" Alex looked skeptical. "When would I use that?"

"Well, now, Alex, surely you aren't thinking that you'll simply be watching Yong-ha? Whenever you get the chance, just slip AIDA within two or three feet of his computers, his PDA, his cell phone, even—God forbid—his pager, and we'll be safely hooked into his system and raiding the entire stockpile of information. After all, that will be your primary function there—data reconnaissance, that is." Smithers looked curiously at Alex. "Didn't Director Blunt tell you so?"

Alex fumed silently. No, Blunt didn't. Just another little detail he'd left out.

Smithers seemed to sense that he'd strayed onto a delicate topic and changed courses entirely. "Anyway, though, Alex, there is one last gift I have to bestow—not per protocol, strictly speaking."

Alex perked up. Smithers's deviations from guidelines tended towards the 'explosive' and/or 'dangerous' side.

Smithers grinned and conjured another essential to a teenager's life from the murky depths of his Mary-Poppins suitcase—an iPod Touch.

"Now I know you've seen this little device before, but this particular iPod has slightly different characteristics than its predecessor. It has the same eavesdropping function—although, I'm quite glad to say, much improved with some collaboration with Bose—but has been…ahh…weaponized, shall we say?" A positively impish look crossed Smithers's face. "I know we've sent you virtually defenseless into situations far beyond your power so far, so consider this a sort of reparation."

Smithers twiddled with the iPod for a moment, selecting a song called, "Flash Fire" by Millenium Imagination 6. A small red light suddenly emerged from its camera lens. The laser point danced on the wall across from Smithers and Alex's bed.

"Now, this is where it gets interesting." A wheel of options appeared on the iPod screen: "Singe", "Burn", "Toast", "Roast", "Daisycutter", and a bright red button reading, "Armageddon."

"You'll have to forgive my little joke here with 'Daisycutter.' I was feeling a bit ironical that day. Too much Hamlet, I'm afraid," Smithers explained jovially. "If you can't tell by their names, these are all various degrees of focused energy beams—one of the newest technologies in development today. As such, you might expect a couple of hiccups from the iPod's actual music-playing ability, but the main purpose is flawless: whatever, whomever you'd like to incapacitate, damage, or completely obliterate will fall before this most useful and most destructive tool.

"For example, please observe." Smithers selected "Burn" and pointed at the plastic tray before Alex. A small, smoking black spot appeared where the red light touched.

"Or, should you need something a bit stronger…" Smithers switched to "Toast" and pointed at a metal hatstand. The laser melted through steel bar like a hot knife through butter, and the hatstand fell in two pieces on the floor.

"And when all else fails, you always have 'Daisycutter.'" Smithers concluded, turning off the iPod. "Daisycutter will cut through just about anything but diamond—including human flesh, so do take care when you use it. Daisycutter also has something of a limited usage; it tends to go through batteries like a teenage daughter goes through clothing." Smithers chuckled at his own joke and placed the iPod on Alex's bed.

"What does 'Armageddon' do?"

Smithers seemed only too delighted to answer. "That, dear boy, is the very last resort. Should you find yourself irrevocably in dire need of an explosive, Armageddon will give you ten seconds to find a good hiding spot before releasing a high-frequency burst of light and heat that could easily fry a whole atrium full of hostiles or technology, depending on how you use it. A very good tool for getaways and for covering your tracks.

"As for the other, perhaps less interesting functions of the phone that I did not demonstrate: 'Singe' will stun a fully-grown adult male on contact; 'Roast' will unleash a particularly unfriendly flash of the same stun ray. Again, though I give this to you in full confidence that you will use it wisely, please try to remember that this is an actual, offensive weapon, Alex. It can be quite dangerous," Smithers finished, snapping his briefcase shut and standing up briskly. "Any questions, Alex?"

Alex shook his head. He was too busy trying to remember the options on the iPod. Mistakes with that kind of weapon could indeed prove fatal.

"Very well, then, Alex, _au revoir_! I'm off to one of my more quiet facilities, so I probably won't see you again until after your mission. Do take care in my absence, dear boy!" Smithers wedged himself out the door again, whistling as he wandered away.

Alex looked down at the three pieces of equipment Smithers had given him. A bulletproof jersey, a smart-mouthed cell phone, and a super-enhanced, super-compact Taser. Alex sighed.

"Alex? Your guardian is here," called a nurse from the door. "We'll send up your belongings shortly."

Alex slid out of bed, preparing to receive his familiar clothes.

The nurse interrupted him hesitantly. "Also…Dr. Vulpes would like to speak to you before you leave. Apparently he's already corresponded with your guardian, but he'd like to go over a couple of things with you personally before departure." She sounded both annoyed and incredulous that someone as venerated as Dr. Vulpes would want to speak to Alex.

"I understand. Thank you."

As the nurse flounced huffily away, Alex smiled. Maybe he'd have fun after all.

…

"I suppose it was only ever a matter of time."

A balding man lay on the floor, broken glass scattered all around him, a cut bleeding freely on his head, his ankle at an odd angle to his body. He was pale with pain and blood loss, but smirked as imperiously as he had at the peak of his youth. "I always knew you'd send somebody after me someday."

His silent opponent said nothing, standing over him tall and dark. The glint of black steel in the assassin's hand was enough of a reply.

"Though I have to say, I'm flattered, my dear Fox," the injured man continued. "I never dreamed that you'd come to finish me off personally."

"I never dreamed that I'd have to." The Fox's voice was as dreamily detached as ever.

The other man released a harsh laugh. "Ha. Is that right? You thought I'd just clam up and live the rest of my life without another word, cowed into obedience by your mere legacy?"

"Of course not. I just never expected to find vermin quite so irritating as yourself," the Fox continued conversationally.

The other man chuckled, but soon stopped, halted by a coughing fit. A dribble of blood trickled from his mouth.

"Your movements…were a little slow today," he heaved out. "Anything wrong with that right leg of yours, little Fox?"

"None of your business," the Fox replied smoothly, cocking the gun. "Any last words you'd like me to have carved into your headstone, Doctor?"

The man croaked out another laugh, sounding like a dying crow. "Hah! I need no headstone to commemorate my passing, my Fox. You _are_ my commemoration. Never forget that. You are my legacy, you are my _piece de resistance_. For as long as you shall live, you shall carry my memory within you."

The Fox stayed silent for a few precious moments. The wind whistled through the broken window, ruffling the other man's sparse hair and the Fox's silken collar. Chilly English air gusted into the room on damp wings.

"I don't think that will fit on your headstone, but I'll try. Though that 'hah' at the beginning really does ruin it for me." The Fox pulled the trigger, there was a muffled hiss, and a bullet sank deep into the man's brain, creating another victim of the Fox's long-reaching claws testifying to the his deadly prowess.

The Fox reholstered his gun and stepped closer to the body. He paused there, studying the start of wrinkles that would never fully form, the letter in the man's hand that would never be sent, and the look of astonishment that would never be completed.

"Death suits you better than life ever did, my friend," the Fox murmured quietly, and closed the wide, frenzied blue eyes.

The Fox stood, tipped his head ever so slightly to the man before him, and began walking back down the stairs. The Fox was indeed favoring his right leg, a subtle hiccup in his step proving his handicap. _The man really was too smart for my good, _the Fox thought. _Not many others would have noticed my limp_.

That thought brought other unwelcome possibilities to mind. The Fox shut them out with a practiced curtness, shutting them off before they could fully bloom and resolving to simply be more careful next time.

"It's not like I really have the time to worry after all," the Fox murmured, more to himself than to the driver as he slid into the backseat of an unmarked black car. He checked his Rolex. "Step on the gas, Tris. After all, I do have a flight to catch…"

…

"Are you sure you've got everything packed, Alex?"

Jack was peeking into the room, her face puckered with slight anxiety. It was now her fifth time asking him that question in the past two hours.

"I'm sure, Jack."

She still seemed discomfited. "And if you need anything—do you have the numbers to call?"

Jack had written down the phone numbers to her relatives living in America—from her cheerful, aged grandparents in Arizona all the way down to her energetic second cousins in Florida—and told Alex to call them if he needed anything. Alex had understood that it was her way of trying to help and accepted them without comment.

Alex patted his jacket pocket. "I have them."

Jack nodded and wandered into his room to pretend to look at his suitcase. Luc had instructed Alex to bring only what he really wanted to bring—Vulpes Estates would supply everything else.

_Luc said, 'Estates'._ Alex thought back to the satellite image of Luc's home, surrounded by thick woodlands. _I wonder how long it would take to find someone in that forest…_

"Alex, are you sure this is enough?" Jack's doubtful voice cut into his reverie as she stared at the small bag.

"Luc said to pack light," Alex replied with infinite patience. He could understand Jack's fretfulness. Now Alex could see her mentally debating something and began counting down to the inevitable inquiry.

_One…two…three…now._

"Alex, are you _sure_ you want to go?"

_Right on cue._ Alex smiled. It was her _twelfth_ time asking him _that_ question in the past two days—even now, when he was due at the airport in less than an hour.

"I'm absolutely sure, Jack."

"But you met him less than a week ago!" she burst out, turning back to Alex. Jack seemed troubled by that fact more than anything else.

"It was an invitation, and I'm a guest," Alex replied soothingly. "I think I'll be okay."

"Oh, Alex, I don't know…he's so young, and he does live in _California_…" Jack said the last word like she was talking about leeches or tapeworms.

_That's the first time Jack has brought up where he lives, _Alex thought curiously. "What's wrong with California?"

"The closer you get to the East or West Coast, the weirder the people get," Jack commented sagely, nodding. "And I want you to be safe."

Alex resisted smiling as he said, "Don't your parents live on the East Coast, in New York?"

"That's not the same thing," Jack sniffed, but Alex could tell she was smiling. She grew more serious. "But really, though, Alex, do you trust Luc?"

_Do I trust him?_ Alex considered her statement carefully, remembering Dr. Thurston, the cafeteria, and the black-widow assassin perched in the corner of the room; Blunt's warning, Luc's apparent naïveté, and the flat, darker-than-black eyes of Yong-Ha Ko…

"I trust him," Alex answered truthfully. _But even if I didn't trust him…I don't think I could leave anyone at the mercy of Yong-Ha Ko…_

"Well, if you're bent on going, I suppose I'll just have to let you off," Jack sighed dramatically. "Grab a pair of socks and get your shoes. I'll be down in two."

"Hey, Jack?" Alex called before she could walk out.

"Yeah, Alex?" Jack turned, surprised.

"…I'll be okay, Jack. I can handle myself. Don't worry."

Jack blinked, as if uncomprehending…and smiled. "If you say so, then, Alex. For your sake." Alex was glad to see her posture loosen visibly as she exited the room.

Now Alex only wished that he could believe his own words.

…

"Terminal A16…" Jack squinted into the distance. "Did we get the wrong directions? I doesn't look like there's anyone over there at that terminal…"

Alex shrugged his backpack onto a more comfortable position on his shoulders. "I guess we'll just have to go see."

After Jack received a temporary pass allowing her to accompany Alex beyond the first security checkpoint, she and Jack had passed through the many checkpoints and checked his bags with no resistance, flowing smoothly through the cumbersome security features. They had had lunch at a little café and were now pacing through the sprawling international airport, searching for the terminal that Luc had detailed to them in his note.

"He did say Terminal A16, right?" Jack looked doubtfully at the deserted terminal. "Hmm…"

"Alex!"

Alex turned at the sound of Luc's voice. Limping along at his usual, ridiculously fast pace, Luc was approaching from further down the hall. Two black-suited personnel jogged after him, startled looks on their faces.

Luc quickly caught up to him, a broad smile on his face. "Hey, Alex." Alex realized that it was the first time he'd seen Luc without crutches or his hospital gown and removed from the hospital settings. Dressed in khakis—one leg of which wrapped around his cast—and a white Polo sweater, Luc exuded the aura of invulnerability that perfectly fitted the persona of a wealthy young doctor; he unwittingly attracted furtive glances and the occasional outright stare with a painfully evident magnetism.

Alex felt slightly underdressed standing next to Luc. Even Jack seemed subdued by his appearance and the guards flanking him—but only Luc seemed to be unaware of the scene he himself was causing. Smiling innocently, Luc stretched out a hand to Jack. "Nice to see you again, Ms. Starbright."

Jack managed to recover enough to shake his hand. "H…Hello, Mr. Vulpes."

"Please call me Luc. I am ever so grateful to you for releasing Alex into my care. We'll be sure to give him the time of his life," Luc assured before turning to the two sentries standing at his sides. "Elena, Tristan? His bags?"

They sprang into action at his command and immediately took hold of Alex's carryon luggage, uncomfortably reminding Alex of trained dogs or seals. Yet Luc didn't treat them as inferior in any way, conversing easily with his blonde-haired, blue-eyed female companion—presumably Elena—as one would speak with a close friend.

"Thanks, Laney," Luc said, patting Elena on her shoulder as she dragged off Alex's luggage. "Ms. Starbright? I can take Alex from here if you have other things to attend to."

Jack bit her lip in a rare moment of indecision and gave Alex one final hug. "Stay safe, will you? And keep out of trouble?"

Alex smiled into her shoulder. "I will," he promised. _To the best of my ability._

Jack sighed. "He's all yours, then, I suppose, Luc. Please keep him safe."

Luc nodded. "Absolutely, Ms. Starbright." He turned to Alex. "If you're ready now, Alex, we can start boarding the plane. Our pilot apparently seems rather eager to take off."

"Umm…is there a plane nearby?" Alex asked, following Luc to the terminal entrance. "I mean, there's nobody really here."

Luc blinked back at him.

"Oh, did I forget to tell you that it's my personal jet?" Luc seemed genuinely surprised as he added in that detail in an off-hand tone. "Not that it really matters, anyhow."

Alex had to swallow his shock. _His personal __**jet**__?_

Luc stretched as they boarded the plane and flopped into one of the easy chairs installed around the porthole windows. Alex had to stop himself from goggling at the luxuriant surroundings. Every surface was either made of glass or upholstered in cream-colored leather, with a plush red carpet on the floor and recessed lighting in the ceiling. The luggage racks were comfortably large but neatly concealed in the front of the plane, leaving the rest of the expansive cabin completely open. From Alex's vantage point at the front of the plane, he spotted a fully stocked refreshments bar, what appeared to be a ping-pong table, and a whole line of chairs similar to the one Luc was curled up in. Needless to say, there was plenty of legroom and enough clearance to stand comfortably.

"What's up?"

Alex whipped around, startled by the lazy voice from behind. A tall, lanky young man stood behind him, leaning against the door separating the pilot from the passengers, grinning. With long, disheveled red hair pulled back into a loose ponytail and luminous, laughing green eyes, he just seemed quite naturally delinquent. He, too, was dressed in the same black suit as Luc's bodyguards from before, but his shirt was untucked and his tie hung uselessly unraveled around his neck with a pair of headphones.

"Name's Reno," the man yawned. "I assume you're Lucky's new pal, Alex?"

"Reno, stop bothering the poor guest and go do your job," Luc called sleepily from his chair. He had opened one annoyed blue eye to glare at Reno. "Weren't you the one dying to get going two seconds ago?"

"I second that sentiment," chimed in Elena from the back of the plane as she typed something into a screen in the back. With her short but professionally stylized haircut and perfectly assembled suit, Elena provided an almost comical contrast to Reno's slipshod appearance. "And Reno, please show some measure of courtesy to our guest. His name is Alex Rider, and he happens to be the reason why Luc is still breathing today."

Reno raised an eyebrow. "Well, now." His voice had changed slightly from carelessly laconic to mildly respectful. "I suppose I do owe you a favor, after all, Mr. Rider."

"It was nothing." Alex felt almost embarrassed under the scrutiny of Reno and Elena.

"We are most grateful to you for your selflessness," Elena added solemnly, coming from behind. "We both thank you earnestly for saving Luc."

Alex sensed a sort of motherly and brotherly love from the two. Clearly Luc meant more to his employees than just as an employer. It struck Alex that Elena obeyed Luc readily out of reverence, not out of fear or drilling.

"Reno?" Luc had woken from his nap momentarily, his eyes clouded with sleep. "Wheels up?"

"All right, all right," Reno conceded, pulling his earphones on and stepping into the cockpit. "If it would so please Your Majesty, Lucky."

"His name's not Lucky," Elena fairly growled. Alex could tell that they'd had this argument before.

"Settle in, Alex," Luc invited, gesturing in the general direction of the cabin. "I'd introduce you to the _Argo_ a little more thoroughly, but I'm still a little tired. I hope you don't mind?"

Alex shook his head.

"If you need anything, just let me know. Elena'll be around to help you too," Luc said, already starting to drift back to sleep. "Thanks again…for coming…"

"He really must be happy you're here," Elena mused, shifting Luc into a more comfortable position in a practiced, somehow protective motion. "Usually when he goes to bed, he's pretty much impossible to wake up."

She turned to Alex and gazed at him steadily. "We really are thankful, by the way. Luc's a good kid."

Alex felt as if he were intruding upon some intimate family affair. "He is a good person," he agreed.

Elena looked at Alex pensively for another beat before turning on heel to the back of the plane. "Anyway, as it is, please enjoy yourself. If you need anything, let me know."

Alex yawned and was immediately astonished by the strength of the sleepiness that followed. "I think I'll just sleep too."

Elena nodded silently. Alex picked another chair and almost instantly fell asleep nestled in the warm leather…but not before he felt a blanket settle over him, a gentle and welcoming embrace to a new world.

* * *

Remember that reviews make my muse's world go round!


	5. Encore

Hey~! :D I know, I know, it's late, and I should have done this earlier! *hides* But I've been hatching devious plot eggs, so it's taken me a while to smooth out all the wrinkles...and no doubt, there will still be more to fix later :P

But anyway, thanks to all for being amazing readers. You guys are what I slave away on my computer for ;)

Enjoy!

* * *

Alex woke with a start as a rather boisterous voice burst over the P.A.

"_Okay, then, boys and girls, we are in the LAX in sunny California, the land of delicious orange juice and beautiful bodies. It is currently 10:20 PM, and we are beginning the landing sequence. Please remain seated until we've come to a complete halt, and…oh, blah, blah, we all know the rest. Just sit tight 'til I turn off the little buckle sign and you'll live."_

As the plane nose tilted gently downwards, Luc stirred. He blinked himself sleepily awake, still half-suspended in the world of dreams.

"Oh, you're already awake."

Elena came hurrying down the aisle, smiling apologetically at Alex. "It seems I was a bit late on the draw."

"Good evening to you, too, Laney," Luc mumbled drowsily, still curled in the seat, feigning indignation.

"You're awake too?" Elena sounded surprised. "Well…this is new."

"Of course I am. I couldn't disappoint our guest, could I?" Luc replied, stretching. He smiled at Alex.

"Yes, well, either way, you should sit still and let yourself wake up properly," Elena stated firmly. "This is the perfect time to recuperate, so just relax for a couple of minutes."

"Thank you for your concern, Laney," Luc grinned. "You know, you can leave me alone now."

Elena pressed her lips together, visibly repressing some reprimanding comment, and stalked towards the back of the plane.

"I have low blood pressure, so when I wake up, I have to wait a little while before standing up," Luc explained. "It's an annoying little ritual, but you'll have to bear with me."

Alex took advantage of the brief respite to look out the porthole window. _California, huh._ Even from the distance he was at, Alex could see the city's thousands of glittering lights and leafy palm trees.

"They say that Los Angeles—City of the Angels, naturally—is prettier at night than in the day," Luc commented, also staring out his window. "Looking at it from this angle, you could almost believe them, huh?"

Alex nodded. He could barely imagine the sheer numbers of people packed into the streets and buildings just below.

"In any case, the Vulpes Estate is quite a distance from Los Angeles. We can drop by the shops later on if you'd like to see the sights and tour the most famous features of California before you go back home," Luc smiled.

Alex was about to respond when the P.A. blared again: "_Ohhh Lucky, guess what I just heard?"_

Luc glared up at the ceiling and sighed. "Reno knows that this is the only time that Elena can't shut him up, so he takes advantage of it. Please ignore anything he says, Alex."

As if on cue, Elena came out of the back of the plane, scowling. "Who let the dunce fly again?"

"He's the only one with a pilot's license, Elena, and I'd really prefer to enter California legally if you don't mind," Luc responded. "We are trying to keep a low profile, after all—"

"_It's the paparazzi!"_ Reno interrupted cheerfully as the plane continued its descent. "_Apparently some celebrity's visiting, so there'll be plenty of cameras and curious, nosy busybodies about. You'd best watch yourself, Lucky, or you'll end up on the front page without realizing it."_

Elena's frown deepened. Luc rubbed his forehead.

"Speak of the devil and he will come," Luc muttered.

"Is there something wrong with the paparazzi?" Alex asked as innocuously as he could manage. This was the perfect opportunity to figure out how and why a CEO of Luc's caliber was so publicly invisible.

"Umm, let's just say I'm a little camera shy," Luc replied, pulling a cell phone from his pocket. "And it doesn't help that I'm not all that photogenic."

Somehow Alex doubted the latter. He looked curiously at the phone. Calling anyone on an active plane could interfere with ground to air communications at a critical moment during the landing stages—that's why it was so strictly prohibited on all commercial flights.

Apparently Luc was not making a call, though. He fiddled with something on the phone's touch screen, his brow still slightly furrowed.

"Would like me to contact Dominic and have him pick us up?" Elena asked smoothly. "It could be arranged quickly enough that the cameras might not notice."

"Yeah, with an entourage of black suits discreetly accompanying me to the terminal exit?" Luc sighed. "I'm stupidly optimistic, but not quite that much, Elena. Do we have any connections that we could call?"

"Not that I know of."

Luc grimaced. "Then it looks like we'll just have to do this by ear." He turned. "Alex?"

"Yes?" Alex was curious about the makeshift plan. What was so disastrous about getting caught on camera anyway?

"I'm sorry for inconveniencing you, but it looks like we're going to have to improvise. Elena, Reno, and Tris will split up and take our heavy luggage to the car to look a little less conspicuous." Luc winced. "Unfortunately, this means that we're going to have to make the trip from the terminal gate to the pick-up area pretty much by ourselves—including customs."

"It's not a big deal," Alex said, confused.

Luc seemed surprised. "Oh…I thought that your guardian, Jack, said that you should be escorted by one of my companions through customs?"

That sounded uncharacteristic of Jack.

…_Very_ uncharacteristic.

"When did she say that again?"

"She left it in a letter, actually," Luc said, extricating a piece of paper from his other pocket. "Here."

Alex unfolded it. Sure enough, that was Jack's handwriting…but wait. The wording was too formal, too strict. And the slight flourish that finished the tail of the 'y' and the curl of the 'h' were missing.

Someone had forged this letter.

Blunt.

Suppressing his irritation, Alex handed it back to Luc, who tucked it back into his pocket. "She didn't tell me about that. I guess I just wasn't paying attention when she mentioned that to me."

"Perfectly understandable," Luc smiled. "I'd be too happy to listen if I'd been freshly released from the hospital."

Alex felt a light jolt as the plane's wheels touched down on the runway. Luc visibly tensed again.

"I really am sorry about this inconvenience, Alex," Luc apologized profusely. "It's just…it's important I stay out of the limelight."

"Not a problem," Alex repeated. He didn't bother asking why again—Luc had made it subtly clear that the discussion was closed to discussion.

"Thanks." Luc seemed to be calming his nerves. "Okay. Elena, you get off first; I'll send Tris after you, then Reno."

"That's a bad idea; someone should follow you up, Luc," Elena interjected automatically. Alex's curiosity grew. Their plan sounded more like an evasion tactic or battle strategy than a normal exit.

"We'll turn a few heads if two black suits leave carrying identical bags and then two regular teenagers just show up before a third black suit leaves," Luc reasoned. "Usually it's corporate officials seated in Business Class, not adolescents barely old enough to drive."

"I always did tell you that the black suit uniforms were a bad idea," Reno put in from the cockpit as he clambered towards them. He grinned widely as he leaned against a wall.

"Who's piloting, Reno?" Elena snapped.

"Tris took over for now; they're just taxiing, and he knows how to fly a plane," Reno yawned. "The only reason he _doesn't_ have a license is cuz the state just doesn't like him, that's all."

"You're slacking off, you mean," Elena muttered.

"No, that's not what I mean! Honestly, Tris offered!" Reno said, raising his hands in supposed innocence.

Elena shot him a venomous look before turning back to Luc. "I still think you should be tailed by someone. Just to make sure nothing happens. And company affiliates get separated all the time—as long as we look like _we're_ one unit and _you two_ look like a different unit, we'll all be fine."

"I have to agree with Laney on this one, Lucky," Reno chirped. "It's never a good idea to have the mark go last."

"What about customs? Reno, you know you're going to trip a couple of red flags. You'll be held back and completely helpless in any situation, even if you do follow us up," Luc challenged.

_Why would Reno alarm the government?_ Alex wondered, looking from one anxious face to another. _And why are they treating this more and more like an extraction of a government official?_

"Then Reno and I can switch spots. Luc, you know it's a good idea. You and Alex are both minors, and you two need as much cover as we can provide," Elena persevered, obviously not about to surrender.

Luc sighed. "I guess you're right. Alex, do you have any objections to our current plan?"

Alex shook his head, planning his questions for later.

Luc stood up, stretching. "Okay, then. Our affairs are in order." He smiled at Alex. "Showtime."

…

A knock sounded on the door.

Ms. Jones stopped writing, glancing briefly at her timetable…and sighed. There were no deliveries or meetings scheduled for today. And, within MI6, where they strove for omniscience, unannounced news was inevitably bad news.

Ms. Jones laid down her pen and folded her hands on her desk. "Come in."

A deliveryman in a khaki uniform stepped in. Like all of the other pages in the building, he was medium-tall, medium-brunette, and looked almost identical to his fellow messengers. He was the kind of person who could step into a room full of people, navigate his way through the crowd, and leave from the other side without leaving so much as a trace of his existence in others' memories. Ms. Jones's heart sank. Only one type of news came through messengers who looked and dressed so neutrally, designed to be as disarmingly anonymous as possible.

Whatever bad news he'd come to deliver was much, much worse than Ms. Jones had expected.

The deliveryman stepped politely up in measured steps and placed a large, mustard-yellow envelope on the edge of the desk. He then retreated without a word, leaving the room and closing the door. If it hadn't been for the papers sitting on her desk, she could have imagined his coming and going had been a figment of her fatigued brain's imagination.

Ms. Jones unwillingly picked up the slim package and broke the seal. She upended the envelope, and a packet of papers, still warm from the printer, slid innocently into her hand. She scanned the first page critically—and then froze as she stumbled over that name…

_Vulpes._

She skimmed the rest of the writing swiftly before collecting the papers together again, this time including a packet of her own papers off of her desk. Ms. Jones strode to the door and into the hallway, forging a determined path to the office of the leader of MI6.

Ms. Jones didn't bother knocking as she pressed her thumb to the security pad next to the door and entered the room. "Alan."

Alan Blunt turned slowly from his computer, his lifeless eyes as impassive as ever. "Yes, Ms. Jones?"

The door clicked quietly shut as Ms. Jones offered the papers to him wordlessly, her eyes fixed on his expression. Blunt flicked his gaze briefly down at the papers, then back at Ms. Jones. He took the packet leisurely out of her hands, as if he had all the time in the world.

Blunt barely looked over it for five seconds before looking sharply back up Ms. Jones. "Who gave you this?"

"It came from Unspeakables' department." Ms. Jones studied him closely. "They delivered with one of the Nondescript, too."

Blunt looked back at the packet, eyeing the papers like they carried the plague. He set them facedown on his desk and propped his elbows up, folding his hands together.

"Alan…" Ms. Jones voice was hesitant, but persistent. The more she thought about it, the more she needed to know the truth behind the little incident at the hospital. Blunt had thus far deflected any inquiries on the matter with extreme prejudice, and Ms. Jones had wanted to respect his privacy…but enough was enough. "Alan, what is this about?"

Blunt stared silently at her.

"Alan, the report mentioned the Vulpes. As in Lucius Vulpes. The same surgeon Vulpes you called to operate on Rider." Ms. Jones gazed unflinchingly back at Blunt, demanding an explanation.

"Yes," he finally acquiesced. "The same Vulpes."

"Then how did Vulpes get mixed up in—" Ms. Jones gave a slight gesture to the papers. "—this mess?"

Blunt seemed to be debating something. "…It doesn't concern you," he finally said.

"Alan, there is a government man dead over whatever this…_fiasco_ really is. You can't expect to keep this a secret for long. The fact that the Unspeakables already have a hold on this means that they're investigating. How long do you expect this façade to hold?"

"As long as I need," Blunt replied shortly.

Ms. Jones stood there, frustrated by her superior's mum refusals to speak. "Then can you at least explain to me how you managed to drag _Lucius Vulpes_ into an MI6 affair?"

"What about Lucius?"

Ms. Jones's frustration built. "What do you mean, 'what about Lucius?' I did some research after I met him at the hospital." She slapped down another packet of paper. "Lucius Vulpes? As in the _founder_ of Vulpes Pharmaceuticals? When were you planning on telling me that we recruited a genius to our ranks?"

"You qualify as a genius as well, Ms. Jones. As do I. I saw it as irrelevant," Blunt replied coolly.

"Yes, but neither of us have 75% of the medical world in our pocket!"

"70%," Blunt corrected automatically.

"No, 75%. Vulpes expanded into most of the Middle East just last week. Now he's in compact with at least one country in every major geographical and political province in the world," Ms. Jones replied with slight irritation. "What I want to know is how you convinced the CEO of Vulpes Pharmaceuticals to operate on Alex Rider, our agent who isn't supposed to exist."

"Alex needed the best healthcare at the time. I used the preexisting circumstances to keep him alive."

"I'm asking how, not why," Ms. Jones repeated, unmoved.

Blunt stared at her for a while, his expression unreadable. "…Ms. Jones. Do not let this matter trouble you so gravely."

Ms. Jones sighed inwardly. Blunt was clearly not about to give up his connection with Vulpes. "Then tell me something, Alan. At the very least. Is Alex going to regret your decision to call Vulpes in on this?"

"With luck and rest, Alex will heal completely from this near-death experience in three or four years. All the muscle, the bone will come back together, and physically, he'll still be in peak condition, with barely a scar to show he'd ever been shot at all," Blunt answered.

"I asked if Alex was going to regret it, not if he'd heal."

Blunt stared her down piercingly.

"He'll be alive, Ms. Jones. That will have to be enough for all of us."

…

Elena collected her sparse baggage and stepped off of the plane first, just as they had planned.

As Elena exited the terminal, Alex realized that the neat black suits that all the employees wore had purposes other than pure aesthetics. Coupled with the correct, detached demeanor, a well-cut, expensive-looking suit could deter crowds as effectively as a scowling, tattooed skinhead might. As it was, Elena's aura of unstated power carved a neat path through the other passengers waiting to board planes as she strode briskly to customs.

_But at the same time, the suits do tend to attract a lot of attention,_ Alex mused, spotting several people shoot second glances at Elena's back. _Luc was right; we're going to stand out in comparison._

"You ready?" Luc asked. He had an oddly determined expression on his face.

Alex nodded.

Luc flashed him a quick, almost nervous grin and stepped out of the gate.

They both attracted attention almost instantly. Businessmen and other suits glared discreetly at the impeccably dressed and obviously wealthy Luc, either shocked or annoyed by his relative youth. Teenage girls goggled openly at Alex in that awkwardly possessive manner that Tom had pointed out before (but which Alex had chosen to ignore until now).

"Well, so much for keeping a low profile," Luc sighed.

They continued walking down the terminal, leaving a trail of curious stares in their wake. Alex felt discomfited by the weight of so many gazes pressing on his back, scrutinizing his face, watching his every move. He slowly found himself understanding why Luc chose to remain in relative anonymity.

"Just a couple more minutes," Luc smiled apologetically, apparently picking up on Alex's uneasiness. "I'm sorry—it's normally hard to travel with me without attracting attention." He broke into a real grin. "Although I have to say, you don't seem all that unpopular with the ladies, either."

"Neither do you." Alex had seen more than one girl flick her glances over Luc.

Luc grinned more widely as he continued limping at top speed. Ahead of them, a gaggle of suits mingled congenially, momentarily blocking Elena's back from view. A herd of young German tourists chattered excitedly as they emerged from the bathrooms behind them, cutting Reno off.

Alex suddenly, irrationally, felt tense. Gripping his backpack strap more tightly, he slowed his pace, surreptitiously slipping his hand in the pocket with the Droid and scanning the crowd. It didn't seem like a coincidence that Elena and Reno would both be separated from them at the same time, not even with the considerable volume of people in the airport…

And then Alex saw it. That one, stray man with the grizzled gray scruff on his chin and cheeks and the cap pulled low over his head, wearing the dusty yellow-and-orange waterproof jacket of a typical construction worker—he somehow stood out to Alex as he approached the two of them, sidling casually closer to Luc. Alex couldn't see his eyes, could barely make out the broken line of his nose, and could only guess at the color of the man's hair.

_A perfect assassin,_ Alex couldn't help thinking.

And then Alex saw the glint of a wickedly sharp blade hidden in the man's sleeve.

Alarm bells went off in Alex's head. The metal detectors should have screened this man for potential weapons, and there was no way he could have legally carried a hunting knife of that size into an airport. Knives, as Alex had learned from Scorpio, were also quieter tools of death than guns. They were perfect for deadly blitz attacks, swift withdrawals, and later concealment during the perpetrator's getaway.

And, from the purposeful way the man was approaching, Alex could guess that was exactly the plan.

Alex quickly came up with a plan, keeping his eye on the assassin. Security had gotten considerably tighter in the United States airports since the threat of plane hijacking had first come to the attention of the American public—no doubt, nestled in somewhere with the hundreds of normal passengers, there were watchful and armed U.S. Air Marshals surveying the crowd for suspicious behavior. However, Air Marshals were not trained to recognize an assassin's stalking behavior; it was highly unlikely that they'd picked up on the innocuous movements of a supposed construction worker.

Alex realized that he'd have to start a commotion first to attract the attention of the authorities. Still keeping pace, he pulled out his iPod and selected "Flash Fire" before tucking his hand and iPod back into his pocket, his finger lightly pressing on "Singe." _Just in case_. Alex took a deep breath, watching as the assassin drew closer…and closer…

…and suddenly crashed head-on with Alex as a suitcase swept his feet out from under him. As they both went down with a spectacularly loud series of thumps and clatters, Alex managed to fall on the man's solar plexus with his full weight.

"Oh, I am _so_ sorry," Alex said, acting like any flustered teenager. The would-be assassin gasped for breath on the ground, clutching his abdomen. With his hat knocked off, Alex could see the sunken eyes, the high, scruffy cheekbones, and the poorly dyed black hair that had clearly used to be brown. "Are you okay? That was completely my fault, I just didn't pay attention for a moment, and then—"

As the assassin floundered helplessly in a desperate attempt to get back on his feet, the knife slid out of his sleeve and into full view. Alex kicked it away from this hand, eliciting a snarl.

"That man has a knife!" shrieked one of the bystanders. Alex had to suppress a smile. Perfect.

And then, recovering with abrupt swiftness, the assassin spun another, smaller knife out of his boot and sliced at Alex's face.

Alex's naturally fast reflexes and training with Scorpia were the only things that kept the knife's edge from cutting across his eyes as the assassin had planned. The knife split the air in front of Alex's nose as he jerked back, automatically pushing the man away from him. Alex cursed his carelessness. _Of course he had a backup!_

While Alex shrugged off his heavy pack and rebounded from his hasty retreat, the man leapt up and pounced at Luc desperately, the knife singing cruelly in his hand—

And then Elena appeared out of nowhere and punched the assassin's temple.

Alex blinked. How had Elena done that? She had been literally ten feet ahead of them, walled off by a bloc of human bodies, and yet she had somehow found the time to completely 180, push her way through the crowd, and incapacitate a killer she knew absolutely nothing about in the precious few seconds Alex had bought with his distraction.

Elena wasn't quite done with the man yet. She immediately trailed her first strike with an enervating kick to the wrist; even as the knife fell from the assassin's limp fingers, she planted her knee in his back and followed him down to the tiled floor.

The breath left the man with a huge whoosh of air for the second time in under two minutes.

Then, finally, seeming somehow tardy in comparison to Elena, three Air Marshals hurried onto the scene, guns drawn, badges out. Elena flicked her glance professionally over their badges and then pulled out her own from her suit pocket, declaring over the ruckus: "I am an F.B.I. agent! Do not fire!"

_Elena's an F.B.I. agent?_

Alex stood there, frozen in place, unsure of what to do. He was suddenly, highly, uncomfortably aware of the unfamiliarity of the country and customs he was immersed in.

Luckily, the Air Marshals took little notice of him. Two converged on Elena and the assassin, guns lowered but still armed, while the other holstered his firearm and began scooting the crowd back, stating orders in a calm and authoritative voice.

The last thing Alex needed was the hell of national security on top of customs and immigration. If the Air Marshals couldn't recognize him, all the better. Alex slipped his arm back through a loop of his backpack and picked up his suitcase, trying not to attract undue attention.

Unfortunately, one particularly sharp-eyed member of the crowd spotted his attempt to slip away and pointed, about to open his mouth—

Someone hauled Alex into the anonymity of the dense mass of people circled around the assassin. "Alex." Alex stopped struggling and found himself staring into Reno's intensely green eyes. For the first time, Reno seemed somewhat serious. "Let's get you out of here, hmm?"

Alex turned. "What about Lu—"

Luc was gone.

Reno was grinning. "You know, Laney's not the only fast one out of us. Tris already grabbed Luc. _You_ are coming with me." He gestured for Alex to follow before turning on heel and walking casually away.

Alex hurried to follow.

* * *

Yeah, I know, not much of a cliffie...but that's a good thing, sometimes! :D

3 3 3 Kitty

Reviews make my muse sing! :D


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